


Running with Scissors

by SMcCoy



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 64,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SMcCoy/pseuds/SMcCoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SHIELD's official term for it is "detainment." That's what they call locking Bruce away for eight months in what is, essentially, a windowless 450 square foot apartment, give or take a bit; he's done the measuring and calculations a few times, but the walls always throw him off. An alternative back story for how Bruce Banner ends up working with SHIELD. Eventual Hulkeye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I really don't know what this is or where it's going. Why anyone would need an alternative storyline for Bruce being roped into helping SHIELD in The Avengers is beyond me, but it's what my brain spit out, so I'm running with it. I'm not sure how much canon I'll mess with as the plot progresses (although I will try to stay as true to the original as I can.)
> 
> -M.

Bruce Banner hasn't seen the sun in two hundred and fifty-four days. He misses it. Misses the roasting heat of Brazilian summers, the slow burn of Calcutta's dry season. He misses June through August in Willowdale, doing research with the windows open so the lab still feels like summer, even when the sunlight can't quite stretch far enough to touch him. He's been breathing the same recycled air for two hundred and fifty-four days, and he has to prod his mind away from the speculation of what he wouldn't give for just an hour or two outside.

SHIELD's official term for it is "detainment." That's what they call locking him away in what is, essentially, a four hundred and fifty square foot apartment (give or take a bit; he's done the measuring and calculations a few times, but the walls always throw him off.) It is, if Bruce is honest with himself, one of the better places he's lived. The apartment was newly built when they moved him in, fitted with perks like a washer and dryer and dressed up in shades of muted blue, walls decorated with paintings and photos of nautical themes. It still makes Bruce smirk when he thinks about it in the right mood; one of the top secret agencies in the world hired an interior decorator just to make sure their newest houseguest stayed as calm as possible. He even has a fancy cable package and internet access, although that's monitored closely by SHIELD, and all communication options (email, blogs, anything with a comment button, even Facebook, he learned in a brief surrender to the dull ache of nostalgia) have been blocked.

They do try to keep him relatively happy. When he was first given the tour of the place, Bruce was told that he could make lists of anything he might need (food, clothes, things to pass the time) on the white board in the kitchen. SHIELD, with its cameras in every corner, its gauges that monitor everything from his pulse to his sleep cycle, has no problem translating the lists into bags of supplies left outside his apartment door. The door is his to control; he can lock it or unlock it (as if SHIELD could ever be stopped by the illusion of a locked door); leave it open and pretend that it looks out onto something other than a short hallway and a locked door that seems to be made of solid steel. The walls, too, under their paint and drywall, are lined with steel (he knows this because he's cut into them, just to see.) They're also thick; the walls between the rooms of his apartment are at least a foot and a half wide, probably filled with concrete and rebar under the steel, and he has no idea how many inches or feet separate the outer walls from whichever SHIELD facility has been unlucky enough to house him. He's sure they know it's not going to be enough to contain him in the wrong mood, but it will probably give them time to react.

Every once in a while his requests get a bit too extravagant and they don't deliver. The first time was a surprise; he had asked for powdered magnesium, because reverting to childhood chemistry experiments does pass the time, and it had been absent from the bags on his porch. He asked again twice more to make sure it wasn't an oversight. Now he asks for things just to see if SHIELD will refuse. He feels more in control when he's aware of where the boundaries are; he likes knowing exactly how much freedom he has to work with. He's also tried catching whoever does the drop offs, but they only ever come when he's asleep. Human interaction, apparently, is on the list of things he can't have.

It wasn't so bad at first. Serving out a life sentence in solitary is easier when your prison is sea-themed and comes outfitted with almost all the books and technology you could ask for. Some days it really doesn't feel that different from all his time in hiding, better in some ways. He just has to steer his mind away from ever wanting to leave.

The first month was a lot of pacing, refining his cooking abilities, and catching up on the books and movies he had missed during his time out of the country. He went vegan in the second month, just for something new to do. It fit in nicely with the yoga and meditation. By the third month he was sick of having to think about every meal and reverted back to vegetarianism. In the fourth month he rearranged the furniture for the hundredth time, covered the biggest wall in the living room with the most convoluted equations he could think of, and started sleeping in twenty minute increments six times a day, which he'd read would either make him crazy or make him feel like some kind of superhuman. Five months in and he had slipped back into his usual sleeping habits and was teaching himself Farsi and Hungarian in the fort he's made out of blankets and furniture in the living room. Month six he picked up Fight Club for the first time in four years and started having conversations with the protagonist, first in his head and then out loud. He'd set the table for two and check with the open air to his left before deciding which tv program to watch. They got into a fight about morality once, and Bruce went five and a half days in silence before breaking down and apologizing. In the seventh month Ender Wiggin and Winston Smith joined their conversations. They're still here with him in month eight, but even their support and insight can't stop the rooms from shrinking to the point where he can't take a deep breath.

He's four days into a vision quest when everything changes. It's not a true vision quest, he knows that. He just stopped eating, turned the thermostat up as high as it will go, and lay down on top of the ruins that were his fort before the space became too small to house his anxiety. He hasn't moved since, apart from taking a few sips of water from the Nalgene bottle resting its solid weight on his chest. The protagonist of Fight Club gave him the idea, Ender told him he could understand the need to break his routine, and now Winston sits by Bruce's head and lectures him on what a poor decision this is.

Bruce thinks the knock is a hallucination, except that Winston breaks off in the middle of his tirade to glance at the door. The fact that a figment of his imagination responds to a hallucination of his is not an argument for that hallucination being real, the soft, sane voice in the back of Bruce's mind assures him, just before a second set of raps beat against the door.

Bruce is lying on his back, hips and legs propped higher than his head and water bottle still cradled to his chest. He doesn't know what the correct response is to the sound of knocking on his prison door, and even if he did he's pretty sure there's no way he could execute it. Judging by how he's been feeling, Bruce thinks he probably sweated his muscles out through his pores two days ago, and his thoughts are too far removed from his body to transmit words down to his mouth. Instead, he shifts his gaze towards the door and waits.

A moment of silence gives way to the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then the door opens and a man in a suit enters the room. The man's gaze traces Bruce's form, from the mess of oily curls he hasn't bothered trimming since his incarceration, across five weeks worth of beard growth, down the faded Culver University tee and plaid pajama bottoms that have somehow grown too large for him in the past few months, to where his bare feet are twisted in one of the blankets that once roofed his fort. Bruce hasn't felt embarrassment in a long time, but the way the man looks at him makes him feel like a child caught doing something he shouldn't.

The man gives a slight, professional looking smile and opens the dossier that had been tucked under his left arm. "Hello Dr. Banner," he says in a voice pitched somewhere between gentle and commanding. "I'm Agent Phil Coulson. How are you doing?


	2. Chapter 2

If Agent Coulson notices that the room he's standing in is holding steady at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit, he does a good job of hiding it. He watches with a look of amused professionalism as Bruce struggles against gravity and four days on no food and limited water to right himself. Bruce is used to the sensation of his imaginary friends peering at him, but to have flesh and blood eyes monitoring his every move makes him feel more than a little self conscious.

Bruce finally makes it to his feet. Ender, Winston, and Noname Protagonist all seem to have vanished in the wake of a real beating heart. He takes a long sip from his water bottle, before dropping it onto the end table beside the couch. It lands with a sloshing thud.

"Hi," Bruce says. He clears his throat, licks his lips, and tries again. "Hello."

"Hi," Coulson responds, his face breaking into a smile that feels a little forced.

Bruce had almost forgotten, in this room with his imaginary friends, the way that people who know his secret always look at him with wariness. Coulson wears it in the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. He's better at hiding it than most.

Coulson shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and the image of him walking back out the door explodes in Bruce's mind. Panic ignites his nerves and spills through his veins.

"I have tea," Bruce blurts out. "Would you like some? I can make it."

He doesn't wait for Coulson's response. He stumbles away from the ruined fort, stopping at the thermostat to turn the A/C on max before moving into the kitchen. He fills up the electric kettle and hits the 'on' button.

Bruce turns around and jolts when he sees that Coulson has followed him into the kitchen. "I don't have anything with caffeine, obviously," Bruce says. "But I do have a pretty good selection."

Bruce has to lean a bit closer to Coulson to open the cupboard that houses his tea and mugs, and he pulls back as soon as he opens it, the anxiety-controlled part of his mind worrying that Coulson will somehow be put out by Bruce drawing so close. He's a mess, he knows. Bruce can smell the stale twinge of his own sweat when he moves, and the visual can't be any better. He runs a quick hand through his hair, his fingers getting caught at the back of his skull. Bruce tries again before giving up and turning his gaze towards the kettle, willing it to boil.

Coulson picks out his tea and mug in silence. Bruce glances sideways and notes that he picked a cup with sailboats around the outside, part of the original apartment furnishings. After a second of consideration, Bruce reaches into the sink and pulls out a chipped mug with a caffeine molecule printed on the side; he likes a bit of irony mixed in with his morning drink routine. He rinses it out before adding one of the used teabags that are drying on the back of the sink. He's never been one to reuse teabags—he only saves them there because he's started a compost bin (his current goal is to get some full spectrum light bulbs and see if he can start an herb garden in his bedroom) and it's easier to let them pile up on the edge of the sink and then transfer them to the bin all at once than to pull the bin out every time he makes tea—but this way he doesn't have to reenter Coulson's personal space.

The kettle whistles, and Bruce takes a step back and gestures toward it. Coulson pours his water, dossier tucked back under his arm.

"We can sit at the table," Bruce rasps, and Coulson nods and exits the kitchen, giving Bruce room to pour his own water.

There are only two chairs at the table, and Coulson's already seated in one. Bruce tries to be subtle about pulling his own just a bit farther away from the other before he sits, back rigid and fingers white-knuckled around his mug. He's never been good with people, and not seeing any for so long is not helping matters.

"Thanks for the tea," Coulson says, gesturing to the mug resting to the side of the papers he's spreading out across the tabletop. "How are you doing?"

It's the second time he's asked, and Bruce still has no idea how to answer. Instead, he looks down at the papers filling his table. From what he can read upside down, it's all information about him. One stapled packet looks like it's a complete history, while another seems to be an hourly write-up of his vitals. He can't tell how far it goes back, but it's almost thick enough to be considered a novel. A third lists everything he's asked for in a cramped Excel spreadsheet. There are also loose leaf pages with notes about behavior changes. Bruce is sure this is all in a computer file somewhere, so why Coulson would need hard copies is beyond him. Unless it's for some kind of show.

"I'm tired of being here," Bruce says finally.

Coulson nods. "I'm sorry about that. Is there anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable?"

Bruce snorts a laugh at the use of the word 'stay,' like he's vacationing in the Bahamas. It turns into a cough, and then he's hunched forward, one hand plastered to his mouth while his other arm wraps around his torso as he chokes on nothing. His head spins, probably from the four day fast, and he can't get a real breath.

Coulson waits for the coughing to subside, waits until Bruce stretches his back straight and has both hands wrapped around his mug again before speaking. "We've noticed that you've picked up some unhealthy behaviors recently. I'm here because SHIELD wants to make sure you are thriving as well as can be expected given the circumstances. How do you think we could best help you?"

Bruce stares at the photo of blue and yellow buoys lined up along a dock just behind Coulson's head and wonders if the agent knows how cruel it is to dangle hope just beyond your victim's reach.

"What destructive behavior?" he asks.

Coulson picks up one of the sheets. "You talk to and attempt to interact with fictional characters, your food and liquid intake has been severely limited, your sleep patterns have been inconsistent at best, and you seem to have given up on personal hygiene."

"It's hard to keep myself looking presentable when there's no one around to impress," Bruce tells the buoys.

Coulson doesn't smile at that. He gives a slight nod and lays the paper back down on the table. "You've had eight months of good behavior," he says. "We've decided to consider giving you a bit more freedom, if you're ready for it."

Bruce stares at him. He runs his tongue along the seam of his mouth to make sure his jaw hasn't fallen open on accident. "What does that mean?"

"It means visits from off duty agents, if any are interested. There's also the possibility of supervised field trips outside of your apartment."

It's too much. Bruce peels his hands off of his mug and wraps his arms around himself. He's finally started coming to terms with the idea that he might never see another human being again, never again smell fresh air or feel the rain or hear the sounds of the city unless they've been recorded and transmitted through speakers. His two hundred and fifty-four day in isolation have felt just as long as his entire life up until the moment he was locked away, and everything beyond these steel and concrete walls is just hope and theory at this point.

"What do I have to do?"

"You need to prove to us that you're stable," Coulson says. "Eat right, sleep regularly, spend a bit of time on personal grooming. It would be good not to talk to yourself quite so much."

"For how long?"

"A month is the set time frame at this point before we'll officially consider changing your clearance level, but depending on how quickly you can make the changes we might be able to cut that down. I'd say a couple of weeks isn't out of the question."

Bruce nods. Eating and grooming shouldn't be too much of a problem. Getting proper sleep and keeping the voices contained to his head will be harder, but new projects are always the best way to pass the time. He just can't think about what it will mean if he fails. "And then I'll be able to leave here?"

"Not at first. We'll want to see how you interact with people in a space you're comfortable with before we let you out. Once you've proven you can do that you'll be able to visit other areas for limited periods of time under close surveillance," Coulson explains. "You won't be allowed outside the building, at least not for a while, but it'll give you a bit more room to roam around."

"Okay," Bruce says.

If Coulson expects more of a response, he doesn't show it. The agent sweeps his papers together and tucks them back inside the dossier.

It's only when he starts to rise to his feet that Bruce realizes he's planning to leave. Bruce reaches for him, wrapping bony fingers around his wrist for an instant before releasing them. He jerks his arm back and hopes the contact will not be the catalyst to hasten Coulson's retreat. "Would you like more tea?" he asks, voice ringing in his ears.

Coulson pauses and Bruce can already read the 'No' that's broadcasting itself across his face. Then Coulson blinks and the lines soften. "Sure," he says, lowering himself back into his chair.

Bruce all but springs from his seat to get the kettle. "New tea bag?" he asks over his shoulder.

"This is fine," Coulson responds.

Bruce would prefer not to reuse the recycled teabag stuck to the bottom of his own mug, but he doesn't want to waste the time getting another one when he only has a limited number of minutes before Coulson finishes his drink and heads for the door.

Bruce already knows what's going on in the world for the most part—he keeps himself up to date on global news—and while he's sure there's plenty going on with SHIELD that hasn't been picked up on by the media, he assumes it's not going to be anything Coulson will feel at liberty to share.

So instead of asking questions or attempting small talk he stares at the agent over his cup of tinted water and tries not to look too unstable as he studies the way Coulson's breath shifts his chest, the way his muscles direct every move of his hands and twitch of his face. The specters who have kept Bruce company are no comparison to the real thing. He can still feel the skin of Coulson's wrist against his fingertips, and in a lapse of sanity he wishes he could hug the man—wrap his arms around the agent's torso and tuck his face into curve where his neck meets his shoulder to relearn what human contact feels like. He's touch starved, he knows that, and there's the nagging fear in the dark parts of his mind that whisper how, once this man walks out, there's no guarantee anyone's ever going to come back for him.

Coulson finishes off his drink, carries his mug into the kitchen, and leads the way into the living room. "Thanks again for the tea," Coulson says. "Let us know if there's anything you need."

He holds out his hand.

Bruce hesitates for a moment before taking it.

Coulson's handshake is firm. He pulls his hand back before Bruce can fully process the experience.

"Have a good afternoon," Coulson says as he steps out the door.

Bruce stares after him for longer than is probably safe for a man trying to convince a secret agency that he is a sane individual. Then he runs a hand over his face, notes the stubble that's threatening to turn into a full beard, and heads for the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been twenty-nine days and Bruce knows he's been played. He knew it two days in. Obviously SHIELD wouldn't send their own people in to keep the man who turns into a monster entertained. And there's no way in hell they would be foolish enough to let the man they spent so much time working to contain loose in other parts of their facility. Bruce is never going to leave this place, he knows that, but the hope of 'what if' is too damn strong. Strong enough that he gets up every morning, shaves, puts on real clothes, eats a decent breakfast, and then spends the day waiting because maybe today, maybe, if he's lucky and SHIELD is feeling low on brain power, someone will slip up and he'll be visited again.

He's watching a special about the progression of Stark Industries through the years when there's a knock at the door. His heart jumps into his throat and he jerks to his feet, switches off the tv, and walks to the door with faltering steps. He can feel his pulse in his temples and he starts to worry. It's not fast enough to be dangerous, but it's certainly faster than usual. SHIELD, with all their monitoring devices, has no doubt already picked up on it. They're probably already considering aborting the mission of whoever's on the far side of the door.

Bruce forces the tension out of his shoulders, takes a few slow breaths, and reaches for the doorknob.

Large blue eyes and a gentle smile set in a face framed with fiery curls greet him.

She's not tall or imposing, this woman dressed in casual clothes with a book bag hung over one shoulder, but there's something calculating in the way her eyes scan quickly over his face, down his body, past him to what she can see of the room beyond, and then back again.

"Hello Doctor," she says. "Do you mind if I come in?"

He takes a step back, giving her room to enter without taking his eyes off her. He knows the fear that if he blinks she'll vanish is irrational, but he's not going to test it, just in case.

"Tea?" he offers.

The woman inclines her head just slightly. "No, thank you; I'm fine."

"Would you like to sit down?" Bruce tries, gesturing vaguely toward the couch.

"Thanks," she says, and steps across the small room to settle on one end of the sofa.

Now Bruce has a problem. The couch is the only seat in the living room, and he's pretty sure sitting down on the other side, even with an empty cushion between them, is too close. No one wants to feel crowded by a monster waiting to happen.

He closes the front door, trying to think. He grabs one of the chairs from the kitchen table and plants it on the far side of the living room. The couch is lower than the chair, so Bruce feels a bit like he's towering, but he haunches his shoulders and decides it's the best option available.

It's only when the woman's smile stretches a bit further along her cheeks that he realizes he hasn't said anything since they sat down. He took a vow of silence, more or less, twenty-nine days ago in hopes of convincing SHIELD that he was sane enough for an encounter like this, and now he's having a hard time remembering how conversations work.

"I've read that you seem to have an interest in languages," the woman says. "Have you ever studied Russian?"

Bruce shakes his head, catches his silence, and then says, "No."

"I could teach you some if you'd like." The woman reaches into her bag and pulls out a textbook and a couple notepads. "My name is Natasha, by the way."

"Thank you. I'm Bruce." He feels foolish as soon as the words leave his lips. She probably knows him right down to his date of birth and last five addresses.

Natasha hands him a notebook and a pen, and they get started.

It's a rush. Natasha fills his head with vocabulary, sentence structure, and verb conjugations. She starts by teaching him a few useful phrases, but it's clear she thinks it's time wasted when he doesn't know the structure behind them.

Bruce is slow at it, slower than Natasha would like, he can tell, although she is patient with him in a cool, controlled sort of way. Her teaching method is solid—Bruce assumes the formatting of it is something created by SHIELD to help new recruits pick up foreign languages as quickly as possible, but he's having trouble with focusing on what he's learning when he's so busy trying not to look like he's staring at her. Every time any part of her shifts he has to study it, catalogue the action, and try to remember if it's supposed to be body language or just part of being human.

He's counted her breaths since she walked in the room. It's not the sanest behavior, he knows; it's just one more way for him to hold onto these moments of not being alone.

Natasha shifts her position and slides a cell phone out of one of the side pockets of her bag. She glances at it, and fear clumps solid in Bruce's chest. He may be out of practice, but he remembers what glancing at the time when you're with someone means.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to drink?" he asks quickly. "Or something to eat? I don't have much to choose from right now, but if you give me a couple of minutes I could throw something together."

The contours of Natasha's face slip into a faint imprint of pity, and Bruce's pulse is pounding in his temples again, a beat for the mantra in his mind of 'Please don't go, please don't go, please don't go.'

"I need to get some paperwork done and in to Coulson before he wraps up for the evening," Natasha says. She smiles, stands, and pulls her bag back onto her shoulder. "Keep practicing. I'm going to try to come back tomorrow, but I can't make any guarantees. In the meantime I'll ask Coulson to make sure someone's stopping in to see you at least once a day. You look like you could use it."

"Thank you," Bruce says, shadowing her retreat to the door.

Natasha gives a nod, and then she's closing the door behind her and Bruce is choking on the terror of being alone again.

He presses his palms to the door and squeezes his eyes shut. He knows better than to trust people who work for agencies like SHIELD, but hope is dangerous because there's nothing you can do to pluck it out once it's taken hold. So he leans forward, centering his forehead above his palms and wills Natasha to remember him, to come back for him, to keep him from cycling down into madness.

It's Coulson standing in Bruce's doorway the next day. Bruce, ready for Russian lessons, tries to think of small talk questions as he offers the agent tea.

Coulson says, "Any type is fine," before he drops down onto the couch and turns the tv to TLC.

Bruce brews two cups of English Breakfast (decaf) and places them on the coffee table. The chair from the day before never made its way back into the kitchen, so Bruce angles it toward the television and settles in.

They only talk on the commercial breaks, and it's usually just Coulson making snide comments about the sales pitches. It feels normal and natural and Bruce loves it. The anxiety in the back of his mind monitors his every word and gesture and wonders if he's doing 'laid back' correctly.

Coulson leaves at the end of the show.

He comes back again the next day, stays for another full episode of whatever's on, and then heads back to work.

It's two more days of Coulson, before a woman named Maria Hill takes his place the next afternoon. Maria strikes Bruce as the classic agent. She comes dressed in her SHIELD uniform and leans against the wall rather than taking a seat, causing Bruce to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. She talks with all the intensity of an interrogation, and she does Natasha's trick of scanning him, then the room, then him again, except Natasha knew how to turn it off.

She only sticks around for forty-five minutes, but Bruce almost thinks maybe that is plenty.

Coulson's back to watch Toddlers in Tiaras the next day.

Bruce turns the kettle on in anticipation the afternoon after, but no one comes.

It's late in the evening and Bruce has already changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth when there's a knock at the door. He opens it to find Natasha staring back at him.

"Sorry I'm late," she says. "I got called out on a mission."

She's in civilian clothes again, but her left eye is bruised and there's twenty-odd stitches running a jagged line up her left arm. Bruce isn't that kind of doctor, but he thinks they look fresh enough that they should probably still be covered.

"I was going to wait and come in the morning," Natasha tells him. "But Coulson said no one had been here today. I thought I'd say 'hi' before you went to bed."

"Are you okay?" Bruce asks.

She grins at him. "I'm fine, thanks for the concern."

"Would you like some tea?"

"I don't want to keep you if you were about to go to sleep," she says.

Bruce snorts. "All I do in here is sleep and waste time; you're not exactly cutting into my schedule." He's quiet for a second, before he realizes the potential politeness in her words. "Unless you wanted to get out of here. I'd imagine keeping a prisoner company isn't high on your list of things to do on your time off."

Natasha studies him for a moment before sliding past him into the room and reclaiming her spot on the couch. "How's your Russian coming?"

"Moio sudno na vozdušnoy poduške polno ugrey," he says as he sits.

Bruce hasn't heard Natasha give a real laugh before. The sound dances abruptly into existence. "Your hovercraft is full of eels?"

"I've been using the internet to supplement the textbook you gave me."

"I don't think that's going to help you much in the long run," Natasha says, toeing off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her.

"You were from Russia originally, right?" Bruce guesses. At her nod he continues. "Do you get to go back there often?"

She shrugs. "Sometimes work takes me there, but I don't go to visit. I don't exactly have cherished childhood memories from my time in the Motherland."

Bruce nods and knows he should head back to the shallow waters of safe topics, but he asks, "So where's home for you then?"

"The SHIELD barracks, most days, and then a safe house somewhere off the map when I need a break from that." Natasha's tone is flippant, but there's something in the meter of her words that makes Bruce wonder if she's much more careful about what she chooses to share than she lets on.

"How about for you?" she asks.

"Willowdale, although I don't think I'll ever go back there after everything." Bruce doesn't need to elaborate; she's read his file. "I guess this is home now. It has clean water and wifi, which are pluses."

"It'll be even better once they give you access to the rest of the building."

"'Better' right up until the moment I lose control." Bruce can feel his mouth quirking into a smile, but he knows it's not a pleasant one.

"This is SHIELD," Natasha says. "No one does precautions like we do."

Bruce glances down at the stitches on her arm. "That would be more convincing if you weren't currently wounded."

She shakes her head. "Different circumstances; one experienced agent in the field is not the same as a building full of employees. Plus, you want things to go well just as badly as we do. It's easier when everyone's on the same side."

"Everyone except the other guy," Bruce notes, before he voices the question that's been eating at him since Coulson's first visit. "If they do decide it's okay, how long do you think it will be before I get to see other parts of the building?"

"I've already turned in a report stating that I think you're stable enough for higher clearance, and Coulson likes you, which is much more important. I think all that's left is Fury's signature. You're not a top priority, but I don't think it will be more than a week unless there's a crisis."

Bruce nods. He's flirting with hope again. The daily reinforcement of the idea that they won't leave him alone again isn't exactly a determent.

The sound of buzzing fills the air and Natasha slides her phone from her pocket, glances at the screen, tucks it away.

"Coulson's wondering why my write up isn't on his desk yet," she tells him.

"You'd think he'd give you some extra time for being injured," Bruce says.

"This is the extra time," she says with a laugh. One of her joints cracks as she rises to her feet. "SHIELD tries to give out down time for agents who've been stabbed, so I should be back to visit tomorrow."

"Doesn't giving out vacation time for getting wounded send the wrong message to their employees?" Bruce asks. "There have to be some days when you wonder if doing the job right is worth it when you could get yourself scuffed up a bit and spend a week on the beach or something."

"SHIELD has a few rules in place to deter that kind of behavior." Natasha's lips are pressed into a smile, but her eyes look him over like she's searching for something as he follows her to the door.

He leaves a buffer of five feet between them and wonders if he said something wrong. "Good luck with your paperwork."

"Thanks," she says. "I'll be back soon."

Bruce nods after her, is still nodding as she closes the door between them. Then he tucks himself to bed and lies awake, wondering about the future.


	4. Chapter 4

The latest knock on Bruce's door comes at 11:37am the next morning. Natasha greets him with a grin.

"We brought lunch," she says, gesturing with the six pack of Guinness in her left hand to the man behind her carrying two pizza boxes. "Bruce, this is Clint."

"Hi," Bruce says, stepping out of the way so they can enter.

Clint looks like he was just pulled away from his latest mission. He's in a sleeveless uniform and there's a bow and quiver full of arrows strapped conspicuously to his back. He does the SHIELD visual once-over (Bruce, room, Bruce again) with a scowl carved into his features before he follows Natasha's lead to the coffee table.

Bruce wonders, as he goes into the kitchen to get plates, if the uniform and the weapons are because of him.

Clint and Natasha are sharing the sofa when he returns to the living room. Natasha's shoes are on the floor and she's sitting sideways so that her knees are bent and her feet are tucked under Clint's thigh. The bow and arrows are propped up against Clint's side of the couch.

"I didn't know what kind you'd want, so one of them is half pepperoni, half cheese and the other is half vegetarian, half supreme," Natasha says with a nod to the pizza boxes as she reaches for a beer. She's wearing long sleeves and a healthy coat of concealer today, but the skin around her eye still doesn't look quite right.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asks her.

"Better than I did yesterday," she says, before wiggling one of her feet to get Clint's attention. "Grab me a slice of the supreme."

Clint follows her command before loading a plate up for himself. Bruce reaches for a slice of vegetarian and the silence starts to feel heavy.

"Is sharing food with the incarcerated a common SHIELD practice?" he asks. "It doesn't seem like the most effective way to punish someone or get information."

"You're not exactly Public Enemy No. 1," Natasha says, licking pizza sauce off her thumb.

Bruce bites the inside of his lip and focuses on the design on the pizza boxes. She's being nice and he doesn't want to ruin it by mentioning that, if the evil in man is measured by destruction and murder, he's a damn terrorist.

He's so used to silence that it takes him a bit should to notice that it's set in again. Bruce glances up to find Clint and Natasha watching him. He winces and covers it with a smile. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something."

"Something like how you turn green and crush cities?" Clint asks. For the sour expression that hasn't left his face since he arrived, the words are more curious than harsh.

"Yeah," Bruce says. "Something like that."

"Why did you infect yourself in the first place?"

Bruce sets the slice of pizza he's only had one bite of back onto his plate and recites the words he's explained in his mind a thousand times. "We were trying to see if there was a way to make humans immune to gamma radiation. The theories and equations seemed sound, so the next step was experimentation."

"Yeah, I read that," Clint says. "But why you? Isn't that the whole point of lab rats?"

"We tried it with lab rats, but unfortunately the DNA makeup of rats is just different enough from that of humans that the data we got was inconclusive."

Clint inclines his head a bit. "Then why not get death row inmates to volunteer or something? You had military backing, right? Couldn't they have pulled some strings for you?"

"It was dangerous," Bruce explains quietly. He's always been embarrassed about this part. "If I'd been thinking I would have run through everything again, tried one more time to find a problem, but we were excited about the possibility of success and everything seemed sound, so we figured, why not test it? It had to be me, because I was the one who headed the project up. I knew it was dangerous and I knew we should have spent more time working through the calculations. I wanted to know what would happen, but I wasn't stupid enough to stick someone else under the ray. I just wasn't smart enough to keep myself out of there as well."

Bruce isn't quite sure what Clint is going to do with that information, so he jumps when the agent barks a laugh.

"Damn," Clint says. "That's one hell of a consequence for not triple-checking your work."

Natasha breaks into a smirk at Clint's laughter, but her eyes stay on Bruce, and he suspects that she's feeling out his mood, just in case.

He smiles back to let her know he's okay. He might not have expected Clint's reaction, and maybe it's not the most empathetic response the agent could have had, but there's nothing cruel in his words, and Bruce has been under his own curse long enough that he can deal with with someone finding humor in it.

"At least it's a lesson I'm not going to forget anytime soon," Bruce notes.

"I think we all have lessons like that," Natasha says, glancing at Clint. He returns her gaze, smile falling from his lips.

Bruce looks between the two of them and his first reaction is to scoff internally. It's not like they have anger-fueled beasts trying to crawl out of their bodies, but the expression the agents share is somber enough that he has to wonder what he's missing.

Their look only lasts a second, before Natasha turns back to Bruce. "Are you up for more Russian? Clint could use the practice, too."

"Hey, I'm practically fluent," Clint counters.

"Maybe," Natasha says. "But your accent is so thick that no pure-blooded Russian will have any idea what you're saying."

The textbook and notepads are sitting underneath one of the pizzas, and Natasha retrieves them.

They spend the next hour and a half working on the language. Clint is as good as he claimed, but Natasha seems to have much less patience for him than she does for Bruce; all of her corrections of his accent come in the form of sharp reprimands. Clint smirks at her and tries again, sometimes with better pronunciation, sometimes with an exaggeration of his accent just to see her reaction.

Bruce wants to ask how long the two have known each other, and whether he's watching the interactions of lovers or just close friends, but he's somewhere between too timid and too smart to voice his curiosity.

Natasha calls an end to their practice long before Bruce is ready for it. Clint asks if he wants the leftover pizza and beer, and Bruce explains that he's off alcohol because of his condition. He does take a couple more slices of vegetarian to add to the half-eaten one on his plate when it becomes clear that sharing what's left is more than just a flippant nicety to Clint.

Natasha dog-ears a few pages in the textbook for Bruce to work on, and then he's walking them to the door and trying convey how much he appreciated them stopping by without sounding desperate or crazed.

The way Natasha smiles at him makes Bruce think that maybe he was successful, but he doesn't have enough time to analyze the expression fully before they're gone and he's left staring at the doorjamb trying not to panic because neither of them mentioned anything about coming back again.

He closes his eyes and walks himself through a breathing exercise while systematically tensing and relaxing the different muscle groups in his body. The whole routine takes about five minutes to complete properly, and by the end of it he no longer feels like he's imploding.

Noname Protagonist appears at his side and guides Bruce into the kitchen to make some tea. He knows that Bruce isn't allowed to talk to him anymore, but that doesn't stop him from explaining the proper construction of a pipe bomb while Bruce sips his drink and wonders where Ender and Winston have gotten to.

The knock comes early the next morning. Bruce is holding a half-eaten slice of toast in one hand as he answers it. He can hear the mumblings of a conversation on the other side of the door in the instant before he pulls it open, revealing Clint, Natasha, and Coulson.

He tenses and he wonders if SHIELD sent three agents because he did something wrong.

Natasha smiles at him. "We got Fury's signature."

Bruce blinks, trying to remember what that means.

"Hope you've got some shoes and a jacket," Clint says. "We were thinking you might like to see the roof."

Bruce starts shaking. His brain screams at him to calm down because there's no doubt that anyone trained by SHIELD is going to be able to pick up on the way he's had to lock his knees to keep himself upright. He covers his mouth with his fist and closes his eyes.

The three agents are still standing there when he opens them again.

"Bruce, it's okay," Natasha says gently. Her expression has softened from exuberance to comfort. "If that's too much for today we can go slower. We'll work up to it."

Bruce shakes his head and "No!" leaks between his fingers. He takes a breath and lowers his hand. "No, sorry, I'm sorry, I do want to go.

"Please," he adds as an afterthought.

"We do have one condition," Coulson says, raising his hands a bit. He's holding what looks to Bruce like a shock collar between them. "For your safety and the safety of everyone in the building you have to agree to wear this for the duration of your time outside your apartment."

Bruce reaches for it, turning the collar over and inspecting the metal box that's attached to it.

"It's heart rate activated," Coulson explains. "If your pulse gets above 190 this will inject thiopental into your jugular. We had some trouble calculating the dosage—we wanted to make sure it was strong enough to have some effect on your alter-ego without using so much that it stops your heart if the dose is administered while you are still mostly human. It's not perfect, but it's better than ignoring precaution altogether."

This should probably be considered insulting, Bruce thinks; Being treated like a dog and all that. He's already got the collar around his neck and is fumbling with the clasp between his shaking hands. There is no pride in desperation.

He stumbles to his bedroom, pulling on his shoes and reaching for a jacket. He zips it up all the way to cover the collar.

Coulson makes him pull the edge of the jacket down for a moment to prove that the collar is still in place, metal box situated over his jugular vein, before he steps back into the hallway.

Bruce moves slowly to follow and Natasha falls into pace at his side. Clint follows behind them.

Coulson pulls out his phone and gives an order. The bolts in the door hiss and it slides open.

"You ready?" Coulson asks, glancing back at Bruce.

Bruce nods and fists his hands at his sides to keep them from wrapping across his stomach.

They walk out of Bruce's universe and through the white-washed walls of a SHIELD facility.

The halls are abandoned, although Bruce can see people working or, more often, staring as they pass by windows that look into several of the facility's other rooms. The rest of the building seems to be aware of this little excursion. He wonders if they've done drills for it.

Bruce is still shaking, but he's able to follow Coulson without too much trouble. Natasha glances at him every few feet and he can feel Clint's eyes on the back of his neck, but his heartbeat is only mildly elevated; not enough to cause serious worry.

He might actually see the sky today.

"It was drizzling when we last checked," Natasha tells him. "We were hoping you'd get some decent weather, but that didn't quite work out."

"No, that's fine," Bruce says. "I'd take hail the side of basketballs if that was in the forecast for today."

Behind him, Clint snorts a laugh.

They reach the elevators and one is already waiting for them. Coulson presses the button for floor thirty-seven. The elevator doors are mirrored, and Bruce tries to straighten his hunched reflection as they rise.

From floor thirty-seven it's a short walk around a corner to get to the flight of stairs that will take them to the roof. Coulson reaches into his pocket for a key as they arrive at the door at the top.

He glances back to meet Bruce's gaze with a smile before he twists the key in the lock and opens the door.

It's the smell that hits Bruce first. He thought he'd forgotten the smell of rain, but he recognizes it immediately. He follows Coulson's lead out onto the roof, where he can feel the raindrops on his face and hands. Bruce has turned the shower to cool before and stood under it with his clothes on and his eyes squeezed shut, pretending that it was a downpour, but there is no comparison. The sky is pale gray and he can see the tops of buildings in all directions. There are planter boxes and trees on some, and he has to wait for his eyes to adjust to far distances again before he can make out the details. Over all of it is the touch of the rain and the smell of things being rinsed clean. He'd assumed SHIELD would be the type to have underground bunkers in the middle of nowhere, but this is so much better.

His perspective changes, and Bruce wonders about it until he realizes that his legs have given way and he is kneeling at the edge of the markings for a helipad. He scrubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands to keep his vision from blurring as he wonders how pathetic he must appear to the agents who have surrounded him in a distant circle, their gazes studying the skyline and only monitoring him in passing. It's probably the closest they can come to giving him privacy.

Bruce pulls off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, resting his arms on his knees to feel as much of the rain as possible. He's given up trying to stop the tears and he sits with his head tipped back and his eyes open to the sky above him, pant legs soaking up the moisture of the wet concrete.

He waits until the only water in his eyes is from the rain before he climbs back to his feet and starts toward the roof's edge, wondering what he'll see when he looks straight down.

Natasha steps in his way. "You need to stay near the middle of the roof," she tells him. "We know you could survive a fall from up here."

Something flickers in the corner of Bruce's vision and he looks sideways to see that Clint has drawn his bow and has an arrow trained on him. He looks around for Coulson, and finds the agent flanking his other side, a gun drawn.

Bruce can feel mania bubbling in his chest and he wonders if he should tell them that the quickest way to realize their fears would be to shoot him.

He stifles the emotion and holds his palms outward and open, taking a few steps back. Coulson lowers his weapon first. Clint waits a few long moments before following suit.

"Sorry," Bruce says.

Natasha shakes her head. "You didn't know."

The wind picks up and Bruce shivers, realizing that somewhere between his room and the roof he managed to stop shaking continually. He debates putting his jacket back on, but he gives up the idea after a minute; he wants to experience as much of the weather as possible.

He walks in slow circles around the parameter of the helipad, trying to take in the view from all angles. The agents have backed off again, once again pretending to let him have a private moment.

There are enough skyscrapers surrounding them that Bruce knows they're in a major city, but he can't see any landmarks that would tell him which one.

He doesn't know how long they stay up there. Enough time for his clothes to get soaked through and his hair to start sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. Not nearly long enough.

It's Coulson who breaks the silence, stepping close with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, we're out of time for today."

Bruce's knees lock and his thoughts turn to, 'No, please no, god no.' There's pressure in his chest and he can't take a deep breath. He can hear his pulse picking up speed in his ears and he knows he should be trying to slow it down, but that's a bit hard to do when he can't even breathe.

A hand wraps around his forearm and Natasha's voice is firm in his ear. "Bruce, you need to calm down."

He wants to shove her hand away because it's not helping the sensation of claustrophobia that's overriding his senses, but he raises his hands to his own face instead, trying to ground himself. The abrupt thought that they'll never let him back up here after this lodges a sob in his throat.

"Nat, give him some room; he's having a panic attack," Clint's voice says, and then, "Wait, wait, wait; what are you doing?"

Something stabs Bruce's right shoulder through the light material of his shirt.

Everything cuts to black.


	5. Chapter 5

His throat is dry. That's the first thing Bruce notices. Things two and three are the way his mouth feels like someone stuffed it full of cotton balls and that his tongue seems to have tripled in size.

He's also soaking wet.

It takes him a minute to open his eyes, and at first he thinks it's Noname Protagonist sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. But the form is wrong, and one glance down at the bow in the man's hands brings the events on the roof back to him.

"Welcome back," Clint says. "How are you feeling?"

Bruce tries to say something positive, but there's not enough room left in his mouth for words.

"Sorry, dry mouth is one side effect of Natasha deciding to dose you on her own instead of waiting to see if your pulse got too high. Hang on a second."

Clint climbs to his feet and heads for the kitchen, and that's when Bruce realizes he's lying on the couch in his apartment. He feels a vague sensation of discontent, but his brain isn't awake enough to form any strong opinions yet.

"Here," Clint says, angling a glass of water to his lips. "Drink slowly or you'll choke."

Bruce takes a few sips, glancing around the room.

Clint seems to pick up on his curiosity. "Coulson went back to work and I told Tasha I'd text her if you wanted to see her. No one likes waking up to the sight of the person who drugged them."

"I'm sorry," Bruce manages to rasp.

"You should be," Clint says. "It's pretty pathetic to have an anxiety attack at the thought of being locked back in solitary, especially after people dangled freedom in front of you."

Bruce licks his lips and Clint's mouth quirks into a smile. "Maybe dry wit isn't your thing."

There's something digging into Bruce's neck, and he realizes that the collar's still in place. It takes a frustrating amount of concentration to maneuver his fingers through the gestures needed to release the clasp and drop the collar onto the carpet beside Clint's knee.

It's only after the collar hits the ground that Bruce wonders if they left it in place for a reason.

"Is it okay if I tell Nat she can come back?" Clint asks. "She was worried about you, which more or less makes you the most impressive person in the building."

Bruce nods and realizes that his mouth is open and he's probably drooling onto the arm of the sofa. He tries to be subtle about wiping it away as Clint punches something into his phone.

It's only a couple of minutes before there's a knock at the door and Natasha lets herself in.

"Coulson wants to know why you aren't answering your phone," she says to Clint before turning to Bruce. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Bruce lies at the same time Clint says. "That's because I'm ignoring him."

Natasha raises an eyebrow at Clint. "You have a mission."

"I know," he says. "I already read the briefing and it's not like I have any packing to do. I was just waiting for you to get here before I headed out."

Clint rises and brushes his fingers over the back of Natasha's hand.

"Try not to get yourself killed," she commands.

Clint smirks. "Yes, ma'am. See you guys in a couple weeks."

"Bye," Bruce whispers to the closing door.

Natasha looks him over. Her expression curves into a frown as Bruce fights to get his limbs coordinated enough to sit up.

He realizes, as he rights himself, that someone put a blanket over him while he was unconscious. He's still in the clothes he was wearing on the roof, though, and both the blanket and the couch are moist from the rain still clinging to him.

For one delirious moment Bruce considers sealing his clothes in plastic bags and tacking them to his walls like some kind of trophy; 'Here's my collection of real rainwater. I gathered it myself.'

He laughs to himself at the thought and hopes that Natasha will assume it's a side effect of whatever she injected into him.

His mind rolls back to the scene on the roof.

"I'm so sorry about what happened up there," he says; laughter draining away as he fumbles for an excuse. "I haven't eaten any protein for a few days and I think I might just have been light headed. It won't happen again."

Natasha doesn't say anything, but there's sympathy in the set of her eyes. Bruce could punch himself. Of course it won't happen again. He's given them more than enough reason to keep him locked in his apartment until they cart his body away to be buried.

"Go change into something that isn't soaked and we'll work more on your Russian," Natasha says.

Bruce nods and focuses on maintaining command over his muscle groups. She's still here, he tells himself. Maybe he won't ever be allowed outside again, but Clint cared enough to put off leaving on his assignment until Bruce was conscious, and Natasha came back after watching him lose it and she still seems willing to waste her downtime on him.

He's not alone for now, and maybe that's not everything he's hoped for in his life, but it's a hell of a lot more than what he had two weeks ago.

Bruce could write a dissertation on making the most out of bad situations, so he decides, as he closes his bedroom door with one hand and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt with the other, that not alone for now is livable. That he can survive without the sun and sky and be okay with it as long as he still gets to talk to another human being sometimes.

He peels off his clinging clothes to the rhythm in his head of 'Good enough, good enough, good enough.'

Natasha gets a new assignment the next day.

She arrives on his doorstep in stilettos and a frown. She's zipped into a black dress that blurs the line between tasteful and provocative, and Bruce gets the impression that the person wearing Natasha's face could cry over spilt wine one minute and snap someone's neck the next.

"You'd better be halfway to fluent by the time I get back," she says as he looks her over, and Bruce wonders if that's her way of telling him she'll be gone for a while.

"Thank you for everything," he says. "Really."

She puts her hand on his shoulder and Bruce's muscles lock up. He wonders if a handful of interactions count as friendship, or if she's viewed it more as trying to train an animal at the zoo.

Natasha steps away and Bruce closes his front door quickly because he knows she won't be able to leave the hallway while he's still staring after her. Manners. Don't want to make her wait.

He goes into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. He holds it in his hands for a moment before pouring it down the sink.

He's alone for the rest of the day.

Maria Hill visits him at 7:32pm the next evening, after he's convinced himself that Coulson's decided he doesn't need any more visitors. Bruce clenches his jaw and blinks rapidly to keep control of the emotions that try to override his body at the sight of her.

She leans against the wall again and begins a line of questioning about his time in India. Bruce picks at a hangnail on his right thumb and tries to answer her in as much detail as possible.

Hill comes back the next evening to ask him about Brazil, and then the last time he was in Willowdale the evening after.

It's four days straight of her before Bruce works up the courage to ask if Coulson's gone somewhere.

She tells him that's classified and that ends their conversation for the night.

At noon the next day she's replaced by a man with red hair curling out from under a bowler hat. "Call me Dum Dum," he says, hand extended.

Bruce takes it and wonders if that's what everyone calls him or if he just doesn't feel comfortable giving out his real name.

Dum Dum drops into Natasha's seat on the couch, asks, "What do you know about Captain America?" and spends the next two hours and forty-five minutes recounting the life of Steve Rogers in exacting detail.

Bruce, who did quite a bit of research on Rogers when he was working at Culver, listens with a polite smile and a wandering mind right up until the part where Dum Dum begins to describe the good Captain's time travel to the twenty-first century by way of icecap.

There are grainy cell phone pictures circling the less reputable parts of the internet of a man who looks a bit like Rogers being surrounded by SHIELD-type officers in Times Square, but this is the first confirmation Bruce has heard of Captain America's continued good health.

That means there are two men with superhero alter-egos running around America. Bruce wonders if Captain America and Iron Man will team up to save the day at some point, comic book crossover-style. Times are good for children who need role models, provided they stay naive to the sorts of activities Tony Stark enjoys.

"He's a good man, Steve Rogers," Dum Dum says in a tone that sounds like he's hit the recapping portion of his speech. "Almost everyone he's ever known or loved is in the ground and he doesn't miss a beat; just wants to know what he can do to help. That's practically the definition of a hero."

Bruce spends the rest of the day thinking of how many different ways a person can be lonely. That night he dreams in black and white about soldiers with eerie smiles and deadened eyes.

No one comes to visit him the next day, and no one comes the day after that. No one, no one, no one for eight days captured in tally marks on the wall filled with his equations.

It's not so bad, Bruce tells himself at first; classic rock drooling from the loose fit between his earbuds and his auditory canals, the volume on his iPod turned up almost high enough to drown out the fears in his mind. After forty-eight hours alone Ender, Winston, and Noname join him for tea. Four days in and he has a panic attack that lasts over an hour and leaves him sobbing in the bathtub. On day six Bruce writes, 'Please,' on the whiteboard. 'Please, I'm sorry for whatever I've done. Please send someone.' He rewrites it four times; worried they won't be able to read the font produced by his shaking hand.

He doesn't remember which day he stopped eating again.

After seven days Bruce wakes up in the fort he doesn't remember rebuilding and swears to himself that if no one comes for him by day fourteen that he'll abbreviate his time in this hell with a kitchen knife and a few well-placed cuts.

The day after he spends dry heaving. He stays awake right through to magic day nine.

He doesn't know it's magic at first. All he knows is he's tried compromising with SHIELD, adding 'or a fifth of Jack Daniels' under his previous request on the whiteboard. As unlikely as it is that they'll deliver, he can't seem to keep his eyes closed long enough to know for sure.

Bruce babbles in Russian while he wills himself to nap and wonders if anyone will tell Natasha that he practiced just like she told him to.

His first reaction to the pounding on his door is anger, because he's never going to get to sleep with that kind of noise.

His second is an overwhelming calm.

Bruce feels like he's watching himself on a screen as some force other than his mind propels his body to the door.

The man on the other side glares better with his one eye than anyone Bruce has ever seen with two. He looks like he's half a breath away from murder and Bruce is proud of the smile that whoever's in charge of his body plasters across his face. Half a breath and he'll be spared five days of waiting and the discipline of doing it himself.

"My name is Director Nick Fury," the man says like he's giving an order. "And I'm here to offer you your freedom."

"You should probably come in, then," Bruce hears himself say.

He's knit back into his own skin somewhere between the front door and the kitchen table. Bruce angles it so the Director's back is to the living room and his view of the conversation isn't against the backdrop of Bruce's fort.

Fury is carrying a tablet and he sets it down on the table and slides it over to Bruce as he sits. The image of a glowing blue cube fills the screen.

"This is the Tesseract," Fury explains. "It's a supercharged hunk of rock from outer space that was stolen from SHIELD six hours ago by the Norse demigod Loki. If you can find it for us we'll give you a backpack full of money, drop you in any third world country you want, and SHIELD will leave you alone as long as you can keep yourself under control."

Bruce stares down at photo of the cube and tries to process. "How do you expect me to find it?"

"It gives off gamma rays, and I know you know those better than anybody. We've got a lab all set up and waiting for you. I won't even make you wear the collar."

"So if I go and I find it for you I'm just supposed to trust that you won't drag me back here?" Bruce asks.

"I give you my word," Fury says.

A laugh claws its way up Bruce's throat. "Your word, sure. The same word that probably approved my incarceration in the first place. If you expect me to trust you you're going to have to do better than that. I want Coulson's word. I want Natasha's word."

"Coulson's working another assignment, but if you'll follow me to the helicopter that's waiting on the roof, Agent Romanoff can give you her word in person."

Bruce nods slowly. "Let me go change."

"Hurry," Fury tells his retreating back. "We're running out of time."

Six minutes later Bruce is following Fury out onto the roof he thought he'd never see again. There's no time to enjoy the half-clouded sunlight as Fury leads the way into the helicopter.

"Romanoff," Fury's voice thunders in the confined space as Bruce climbs in behind him. "Tell Banner I'm a man of my word."

"If this is about you getting your freedom back after all this is over, I'll oversee your relocation myself," Natasha says. There's an edge to her voice, and she only gives Bruce a passing glance as he straps into the empty seat beside her.

Bruce nods and waits until the blades of the helicopter are a harsh white noise before asking her softly if everything's alright.

She meets his gaze for the first time since she left on her assignment, and Bruce can see anger cold and sharp in her eyes. "Barton's been taken prisoner," she says.

Bruce tries to think, but he's pretty sure he's never heard that name before. "Who?"

"Clint," she clarifies.

He blinks and he can see it; the man who kept vigil over his unconscious form now restrained and bloody, fighting to keep quiet against a battery of questions. "I'm sorry."

Natasha nods and turns to look out the window on her other side.

They don't talk again for the rest of the trip.


	6. Chapter 6

"Okay, okay, you're probably dead on your feet by now, but I just have one more room to show you and then I swear you won't see me again for twelve hours, minimum," Tony says, his grin verging on maniacal.

"Sure." Bruce follows Tony into yet another elevator where the up button is pressed yet again. Bruce is going to have to upload a blueprint of Stark Tower to the tablet Tony gave him; there's no other possible way he's going to get anywhere around here.

The elevator dings and they walk out into what was probably the penthouse twenty-four hours ago and is now more like ground zero. The windows have been almost completely smashed out and there's rubble everywhere. Bruce wonders if anything will be salvageable.

"Look," Tony says, pointing to two craters in the floor at the middle of the room. One of them is an amorphous dent, but the other has the clear imprint of a body in the middle of it. "Do you remember this?"

Bruce doesn't, but he's pretty sure he can see where this is going. Destruction is the Other Guy's signature.

"This is what you did to Loki. He managed to brainwash Hawkeye and almost beat Captain Wonder Bread into a pulp the first time they fought, but you smashed him into the floor like it was nothing." Tony's voice is almost reverent, and Bruce thinks it's no wonder; the public persona of Tony Stark only pays homage to two gods: power and science.

"This is what all that strength you're so terrified of can do," Tony adds. "You should be fucking proud of it."

"Maybe I'll appreciate it more once I've had some sleep," Bruce offers.

Tony's grinning again. "Sure. You'll have time to warm up to them; I'm having my architect stop by tomorrow to talk about fixing this place up and making the rest of the tower into Superhero Paradise, but I'm going to have her keep the craters; they're my new favorite part of the building."

"I'm glad you like them," Bruce says. He smiles. Tony's being nice. Much more than nice if Bruce thinks about it; he's giving him a place to stay and a lab to work in. Even better, he's giving Bruce the promise that he's not alone. The only downside is that Tony doesn't understand. It was bad enough when the Other Guy was a monster. Now the 'Hulk' seems to be getting just as much praise as the rest of the Avengers, and people are eagerly awaiting his next appearance.

"Okay, that was it," Tony says. "We stopped the bad guy and saved the world. Now's the part where the credits roll and we get some well deserved rest. Pepper's supposed to get here in an hour and a half. You're welcome to stay up if you want to meet her, but she'll probably come off better when she's not all 'Aah, the world almost ended and you almost died and what the hell were you thinking, Tony?' I'm not even planning to wait up for her. That kind of conversation usually goes better when I'm half asleep."

"I'll wait until the morning," Bruce says. "Can you tell me how to get back to my room?"

"JARVIS!" Tony shouts, glancing up at the ceiling. "Walk Dr. Banner back to his room for me."

"Yes, sir," the AI responds. "Dr. Banner, if you'd be so kind as to return to the elevator, I can guide you back to your suite."

"Thanks for everything," Bruce says to Tony. It's not nearly enough to cover what the billionaire has done, but it's a start.

Tony waves the compliment away. "Hey, it's nothing. You're really doing me a favor here; I've got all of these extra rooms and nothing to do with them."

"I do appreciate it, though," Bruce tries again. "Really."

"Get some sleep," Tony counters. "I want to see what that brain of yours can do when it's not hobbled by SHIELD's antique excuses for technology."

"Sure," Bruce says, before heading into the elevator.

Tony is still staring at the holes in the floor when the doors close.

With JARVIS' help Bruce has no trouble finding his way through the maze of floors and hallways between the penthouse and his room.

'Room' is laughable. He's got a two-story suite that looks like it's been transplanted from a five-star hotel in Dubai. The bedroom alone is big enough to house his entire SHIELD apartment with space left over. Bruce opens every curtain and, when the sight of the city isn't enough, he cracks the windows so that he can smell the night air and hear the faint sounds that manage to reach this far into the sky. He feels a bit bad about making Tony pay more to keep his corner of the building heated, but he has the feeling the billionaire doesn't spend much time looking at his bills.

Bruce sits down on the edge of the king size bed and runs his fingers over the duvet. He's fallen through a wormhole. He's living in a fever dream and it's only a matter of time before he wakes up in his blanket fort with Ender and Winston and Noname standing guard over him.

He tries to process.

The sensation of being able to move around freely was the strangest part at first. He'd spent most of his time on the Helicarrier in hiding; camped out in the lab he'd been given because the thought of being free to roam around a contained facility housing so many damn people was overwhelming, and he didn't want to give SHIELD any kind of technicality on which to withdraw their offer of freedom once the Tesseract had been found. That, and the fact that trying to pretend that he hadn't spent the last ten days wobbling on the edge of a complete mental breakdown was exhausting.

After Tony's perpetual attempts to bring the Hulk out became a bit tedious, Bruce had decided to try taking a walk around the Helicarrier, as much to get away from Tony's eager gaze as to prove to himself that he could do it. He passed dozens of people in the span of ten minutes and only a fraction even acknowledged his presence. It felt like his time out of the country. Even better, it felt like his time before the accident, when no one looked at him like he was anything out of the ordinary because he wasn't.

And then they'd brought Loki onboard and everything had gone to hell.

He remembers the transformation. Natasha's voice coming from way too close as she swore that she would help him, that she would get him out. His memory cuts off after that.

"JARVIS?" He says to the silence around him.

"Yes, Dr. Banner?"

"Do you still have access to the CCTV on the Helicarrier?"

"I'm afraid SHIELD has locked me out of their live feed, but I do have recordings from the time Mr. Stark entered their system up until seven hours ago."

The golden answer. "Is there a way you can pull up the videos of the Hulk's time on the plane?"

"Of course, sir. Would you like those transmitted to your computer, or should I play them on the bedroom tv?"

"The tv would be good, thanks."

It's not a tv so much as a blank stretch of wall to the right of the bathroom door that glows gray for an instant before splitting into four different camera angles, each giving a unique perspective on the Hulk's rampage through the Helicarrier.

He watches it straight through five times and then begins enlarging the different angles at different times to see exactly what the Hulk did and what the aftermath was. The beginning is the worst part, he decides. The fear naked in Natasha's eyes as she runs from the Hulk knots his stomach.

This is the creature that helped save the world. This is the hero Tony keeps bragging about. Whatever good people might think is in the Hulk, it's not anywhere near enough to nullify the rage and the need to devastate.

"JARVIS, shut it off, please."

The room seems dim without the glow of the screen. Bruce gives his eyes a second to adjust before retrieving the duffel Natasha had given him from where he'd dropped it earlier.

He doesn't know what she filled it with; he didn't bring anything onto the Helicarrier except the clothes he had been wearing.

Bruce unzips the bag to find a sleek black smart phone sitting on top of a collection of clothes and toiletries taken from his apartment at SHIELD. They carry with them the faint smell of something Bruce can't classify as anything other than the scent of that place, and while it was probably meant as a kind gesture, he's really not sure he needs any more reminders of his time there.

He pulls out the phone and zips the bag closed again. Brushing his fingers across the glass pulls up a locked screen with the words 'Call me when you can. –Nat' glowing across the background. He follows the 'Slide to unlock' instruction and pulls up the address book to find that it has numbers saved for all of the other Avengers, excluding Thor.

His thumb hovers over the green phone icon to the right of Natasha's name, and Bruce wonders if he should wait until the morning to call her. Then again, if she went to the trouble changing the background of the lock screen just to ask him to contact her, she probably didn't want him to put it off.

He touches the screen and lifts the phone to his ear.

Two rings, before there's a connection. "This is Barton," says the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Hi," Bruce says. "Sorry, I was trying to call Natasha."

"You did; this is her phone."

"Oh." Bruce finds himself hovering somewhere between mortifyingly embarrassed and relieved that no one's around to watch him blush as his mind fills in the blanks of what Clint could be doing answering Natasha's phone. "I'm sorry. I got a message from Natasha asking me to call."

"Well, she's in the shower right now, but she's been in there for a while. Give me a sec."

Something muffles the speaker before Clint shouts an incoherent string of words away from the phone. His voice is back after a beat of silence. "She says she'll be out in a few minutes. You can just stay on the line if you want."

"Sure," Bruce says. There's really no other polite answer he can give.

Clint doesn't respond, and Bruce wonders if that means he's supposed to say something, or if Clint would prefer not to talk.

"I heard about your capture," Bruce says when the silence becomes too awkward for him to bear. "Are you okay?"

Clint chokes a laugh. "Wonderful. Fan-fucking-tastic."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" Bruce's voice trails off when he realizes he doesn't know how to end that sentence.

There's a pause before Clint's voice echoes in Bruce's ear again. "No, that was rude of me; I know you're just trying to be nice. I'm guessing they probably didn't tell you that it wasn't a 'capture' so much as mind control. I was taking commands straight from the God of Lies himself for a while there. You know the attack on the Helicarrier? I was the one who made that happen."

Bruce closes his eyes. "Do you remember any of it?"

"Every damn minute."

'I'm so sorry,' Bruce's mind tells him to say. Or maybe, 'I can't imagine.' Instead he whispers, "It doesn't work like that for me when I transform into the Hulk. Sometimes I get images, sort of like a dream, but that's it. I'm sorry; I know it's not the same at all, but I do understand what it feels like to have control taken away from you, and I know how it is to snap out of it and have to look back on everything you did when you were under."

Bruce hears Clint take two deep breaths before saying, "Here's Tasha."

"Are you okay?" Natasha's voice asks faintly before becoming clearer. "Hi, Bruce; how are you doing?"

"Well enough. Your message said you wanted me to call?"

"Yeah, do you have a few minutes?"

This is it. Natasha's going to explain in her diplomatic way that, after two transformations in a span of less than twenty-four hours, SHIELD has decided Bruce is too dangerous to be out in the world. Fury's agreement had hinged on Bruce's ability to control himself, and he's already proven he can't do that.

Bruce glances at the duffle by his side. He could try running, but he's broke in the middle of New York; he'd be lucky to get five blocks before they picked him up.

"Bruce?"

"Sorry, I'm still here."

"This is just a check in to see how you're doing," Natasha says. "You're basically a civilian, and after everything you've been through recently I wanted to make sure you were handling things alright."

Oh.

Kindness.

Bruce feels like a paranoid ass.

"I'm doing okay," he says. "Still trying to process. I watched the feed from my transformation on the Helicarrier. I'm so sorry for what happened."

"It's fine. You're still learning how to control it."

"I don't think control will ever be an option with him," Bruce tells her.

"Maybe not, but he was pretty helpful by the end."

"So I've heard; Tony has been singing his praises."

Natasha snorts. "I admire you for being willing to live under the same roof as him. Stark's antics get old pretty fast."

"It sounds like his hope is to get the rest of you to join us," Bruce says. "Make us into one big happy family."

"Clint and I are under contract with SHIELD, and I'm not sure they'd go for that."

"Maybe not."

There's a pause, and then Natasha sighs. "Bruce, I don't know if anyone told you about Coulson."

Bruce's heart drops into his stomach. "What about Coulson?"

"Loki got out of his cage on the Helicarrier and Coulson tried stop him by himself. He didn't make it."

It's ridiculous. Bruce spent a few hours with Coulson total, and most of those were void of communication. He knows nothing about the agent whatsoever. But Coulson was his first human contact after eight months of silence, and he was the one who'd drop onto Bruce's couch and watch tv like there was nothing unusual about either of them. He was a good agent, obviously, but from what Bruce could tell he was also a good man.

"Will there be a funeral?" Bruce asks, before wondering if it would be better for himself in the long run if he were to go ahead and bite his tongue off now.

"They'll probably do some sort of service for SHIELD. I'm sure you and the rest of the team will be welcome to attend if you want."

"Okay." It takes him longer than it should for him to ask, "Are you alright? You knew him much better than I did. How are you and Clint handling it?"

"We'll be okay," Natasha says. "We always are."

"It's good that you have each other," Bruce notes.

"Yeah, I'm lucky; he's a good friend."

"That's good." Bruce says, and wonders what her definition of a 'good friend' is.

Bruce hears Clint mutter something in the background before Natasha says, "If you're sure you're stable I'm going to go. Fury wants me to stop by the tower in the next few days to set up some ground rules for Stark's interactions with the press. We can talk more then."

"Sure. Thanks for checking up on me."

"You're welcome. Enjoy your freedom."

"I will," Bruce says, before dropping the phone onto the nightstand. He strips down to his boxers and considers taking a shower, before the exhaustion in his mind assures him that if he tries to stay awake for much longer he'll be functioning with the backdrop of auditory hallucinations.

He pulls back the covers and slips inside, shuffling to the center of the mattress and stretching his limbs out in all directions to feel the expanse of the bed and the expense of the sheets.

The events of the past few days batter against the walls of his mind, but for now he's got freedom, a place to stay, and the ability to interact with people whenever he wants.

He falls asleep and doesn't dream.


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce has no idea how Tony does it. The day Thor took Loki back to Asgard, Tony mentioned how convenient it would be to have the Avengers living in one place, and within a week he'd managed to collect all of them except the God of Thunder.

"The remodel's not done yet, sorry about that," Tony explains as he gives Clint and Natasha their first grand tour, Steve his second, and Bruce his third. "But it's still bound to be better than whatever Spartan barracks SHIELD stuffs you into."

Clint and Natasha haven't left each other's personal space since they arrived at the tower. Natasha speaks for both of them; asking questions about the logistics of living as a team and answering anything the others throw at them. Clint glares at everything, nods occasionally when Natasha glances at him, and makes Bruce wonder if he even knows where he is.

"Okay, I have to ask," Tony says as he leads the way to the wing that holds the unclaimed suites. "And I'll remind you that there are witnesses here in case you feel like stabbing me or something, but one bedroom or two?"

Natasha says, "Two," without glancing at Clint.

"Yeah, okay; it is always nice to have your own space." There's a smirk on Tony's lips that doesn't quite match his words.

The tour ends in front of their rooms with an explanation that there will be Thai food available in the main kitchen in twenty minutes, and JARVIS is always available to help with anything they might need.

"Thanks," Natasha says, before stepping into her room. Clint follows her inside.

Tony turns to Steve and Bruce and his smirk becomes lecherous. "Call it. I've got fifty dollars that says they're friends with benefits."

Steve's eyebrows drop and his mouth turns down in confusion.

"Fuck buddies," Tony tries to clarify. "I don't know what they called it in the forties, but my dad was around so the concept must have been there."

"Leave them alone," Steve commands, shaking his head. "They've been through hell." He walks down the hall without looking back.

Tony stares after him, frowning, before he plasters a grin back on his features and turns to Bruce. "How about you? You seem like you've gotten on Agent Romanoff's good side; any insider info you'd like to share?"

"Steve's right," Bruce says. "It's none of our business."

"Ugh, this was a fantastic opportunity to grow closer as a team through suspicion and surveillance and you guys are ruining it. I should report you to Fury."

Tony is trying to be funny, but the mention of Fury in the conversation makes Bruce flinch. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Tony rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "I'll just have to think of something else to keep us entertained. In the meantime, you should stop by my lab; I'm hoping to come up with some way to contact Thor, and I could use your input."

"Sure," Bruce says. "Would this afternoon work?"

"Definitely; lunch first is important. I kind of have a habit of getting caught up in my work and there's nothing quite as depressing as reheated curry."

They part ways; Bruce heading back to his room to keep himself from standing outside Natasha's door wondering if it would be rude to knock and Tony slouching off to do something that probably isn't that.

Clint and Natasha are no-shows at lunch.

Bruce tries to be subtle about picking the meat out of his food as he waits until Steve and Tony have eaten their share and left the kitchen before he loads up two plates and heads toward the bedrooms.

He's not trying to intrude, and if he's interrupting anything he can just leave the plates and go, but Bruce has missed interacting with people who know what the past nine months have entailed for him. Tony talks about Loki's visit to earth like it was some kind of superhero play date, and Steve calls Bruce 'Doctor' and doesn't have much to say to him beyond that. Bruce has to believe that Clint and Natasha will handle everything that happened more honestly than that.

There's no response to his first rap on Natasha's door, holding one plate of food in his right hand and balancing the other on his forearm to free him up to knock. He tries once more, and is about to leave when the door opens and Natasha peers out at him.

"Hi," Bruce says. "I have some lunch for you two if you want it. You brought me pizza when I was at SHIELD, so I thought I could sort of return the favor."

Natasha rests her temple against the doorframe and gives him an exasperated smile. "How has the world not ruined you yet, Banner?"

Bruce has no idea what she means by that. Before he can ask she takes a step back and gestures him into her living room.

"Bruce brought food," she calls through the suite.

Clint shuffles in from another room barefooted and shirtless. Bruce drops his gaze to the plates of food in his hands and prays that neither of the agents notice the heat rising in his cheeks. Clint is probably sick of being cockblocked by him.

"I didn't bring anything to drink because I didn't know what you'd want and there wasn't really a way for me to carry it," Bruce tells them. "If you give me your orders I can go get them and then leave you alone."

"I can grab the drinks," Natasha says, taking the plates from him. She hands one to Clint and sets the other down on the leather ottoman that doubles as a coffee table. "You're welcome to stay if you want."

"I'll take anything with alcohol in it," Clint says to Natasha as he sits down on the sofa and moves her food out of the way so he can put his feet up on the ottoman.

"You're not getting drunk," Natasha tells him before looking back at Bruce. "Do you want anything?"

Bruce shakes his head and Natasha leaves, closing the door behind her.

"Sorry for interrupting," Bruce says immediately, keep his eyes fixed on the arch of the sofa behind Clint's left shoulder. "I can go."

Clint takes a bite of pad thai before responding. "I think you apologize more than anyone I've ever met."

The heat in Bruce's cheeks intensifies. "I have a lot to apologize for."

"Maybe we should compare histories sometime. I'm pretty sure I could beat whatever score you're racked up against yourself."

"You work for SHIELD, though," Bruce says. "Whatever else you've done in your life, that's got to make things at least even again."

Clint's gaze feels like a tangible weight on Bruce's chest, and he's fighting hard not to cower under it.

Clint tilts his head to the side as he chews. "If you could take back one thing that you've done in your life, what would it be?"

Bruce's answer is immediate. "Exposing myself to gamma radiation."

"It has to be something besides that."

Bruce pulls up the mental catalogue of his offenses and begins flipping through. "Do you remember the monster that ransacked Harlem a few years back? The one that wasn't the Hulk?" He waits for Clint's nod before continuing. "I was the one who gave his creator everything he needed to make that happen. I was foolish and desperate enough to think he might be able to reverse what had happened to me, and instead he created a monster that killed hundreds of people and is now either dead or a prisoner of the US military." Bruce runs a hand through his hair, the sensation anchoring him in the present. "I'd take back ever contacting the man in the first place."

Clint lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, that's a good one."

"What about you?" Bruce asks.

There's a pause as Clint separates the different types of food on his plate into distinct piles. "I fell out of touch with my brother back when I was younger. I think, if I could take one thing back, it would be letting that relationship go."

Bruce nods, and Clint's voice stumbles over his next words in a rush to get them out. "I know it's not as good as taking back a massacre, and I damn well have some of those to account for, but I think, if he'd still been in my life, I would have been a better person for it. I think that might have changed some things."

"It's a good one," Bruce says. He's not good at assurances, but he made the mistake of looking at Clint's face, and all of the pronounced stoicism from his earlier tour of Stark Tower is gone, replaced by eyes held wide by sorrow and regret. There's something overwhelmingly fragile about him buried beneath the SHIELD training and the fighter's physique. Bruce knows nothing about archery or assassin work or whatever the hell else Clint's doing with his life, but he's intimately familiar with the sensation of waking up drowning beneath the weight of your past.

Tentatively, beating back the voice in his head that's commanding him to turn around and get out while he still seems to be on good terms with Clint, Bruce moves to the couch and sits down on the far end.

Clint stuffs a forkful of food in his mouth and glances over at Bruce, chewing noisily.

Bruce is still trying to think of something else to say when Natasha slips back into the room, two bottles of Coke in hand.

"Did you get lost?" Clint asks her.

She throws one of the bottles at his head and Clint catches it with reflexes so fast they make Bruce jump.

"Why anyone would need a building this large is beyond me," Natasha says, picking up her food and kicking off her shoes before curling up on the loveseat.

"Anything smaller and there wouldn't be room for his ego," Clint notes, his mouth full of noodles.

Natasha snorts. "How are you adjusting?" she asks Bruce before taking a bite.

"Good," Bruce says, before adding a bit more honestly, "Sometimes I wake up and it takes me a minute to remember where I am. It's a lot to relearn."

"Any unusual behaviors or trouble acclimating?"

Bruce's first instinct is to say no, but there's a hollow in his chest that aches constantly these days under the pressure of the emotions that won't let him go. "I dream about it sometimes. Or a lot, I guess. I also walk around the building in the middle of the night just to prove to myself that I can. I've probably been up to the roof fifty times by now, but I haven't left the building yet; I'm scared of how I'll react back in normal society."

Natasha nods. "That all sounds pretty typical."

"It'll get better over time," Clint agrees, reaching across the sofa to brush his fingertips over Bruce's shoulder before turning back to his food.

"Thanks," Bruce says, and he's pretty sure he means it more for the touch than anything else. He wants to say more, but his thoughts are cut off by JARVIS.

"Sorry for the intrusion," the AI offers, "But Mr. Stark is requesting the presence of Dr. Banner in the lab at his earliest convenience."

"Tony wants to figure out a way to communicate with Thor," Bruce explains as he stands.

"Not a bad idea," Natasha notes as Clint says, "Have fun. Thanks for the food."

Bruce responds with a 'thanks' of his own and shows himself out.

Bruce and Tony are together in the lab when JARVIS announces that a man who calls himself Doctor Doom is attacking the city with robots. Bruce glances at the clock in the corner of the screen in front of him and reads '3:27am' as Tony lets out a whoop and says, "Finally! I was wondering how long it would take for someone to be stupid enough to try to cross us. JARVIS, round everybody up; tell them we're on."

Bruce watches Tony activate his suit and then follows his eager steps to find the rest of the team. They meet up in the lobby where Steve, who still can't work a Blu-ray player, is holding an iPad with a briefing from SHIELD and explaining the attack plan. He's wearing his stars and stripes, and Clint and Natasha have arrived in their uniforms. Bruce is dressed in slacks and a button up shirt. He feels a bit like a kid on Take Your Child to Work Day.

Steve's eyes rise to meet his. "Are you ready?" the soldier asks.

Bruce Banner is a socially inept scientist who still has trouble sleeping through the night and has no place in this briefing. His only value comes from his ability to be replaced by a monster.

He nods and listens studiously as Steve gives them their marching orders. Then he follows the others outside and lets the anger overtake him.


	8. Chapter 8

Coming back to himself always makes Bruce feel as if he's been stuffed into a cupboard. There's not enough room inside his skinny limbs, and his brain is full of static. His joints are stiff and his muscles ache with the aftereffects of his transformation.

It takes him a few minutes to realize he's in bed, and several more to pick up on the fact that Natasha is sitting in a chair beside him, illuminated by the mid-afternoon sunlight that's managing to sneak between the city's western skyscrapers.

"Welcome back," she says.

Bruce opens his mouth and lets out a disjointed string of vowels and consonants. Then he concentrates and tries again. "How was it?"

"We won. Fury's a bit upset about the amount of damage that happened, especially since they're still cleaning up after the fight with the Chitauri, but he'll calm down."

"Did the Hulk hurt anyone?"

"No, you did well," Natasha says with a smile. It broadens after a moment. "Well, you fractured Clint's wrist, but that was his own fault for trying to teach the Hulk how to do a fist bump while we waited for you to change back."

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and tries to feel remorse, but the closest he can come to it is confusion. He can't picture Clint even attempting to interact with the Hulk, much less trying to teach him tricks. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be; Clint got him to figure out how to do it eventually. I think Tony filmed it."

Bruce waits until Natasha leaves before asking JARVIS if he can pull up the video. The screen on his wall lights up almost immediately.

The camera shakes as Tony's laughter fills the air, but it picks up the image of the Hulk sitting in the middle of a street where dismembered robots seem to have fallen like confetti. His huge green face is pinched in concentration as he stares down at Clint who's already cradling his right arm close to his chest.

"Okay, let's try it again, big guy," Clint says, holding his good fist in the air. "Remember, you have to be gentle or it's going to be a few weeks before we can try this again."

The Hulk makes his own fist and moves it with exaggerated slowness toward Clint's. They bump, and the Hulk pulls his back like he's been shocked.

"You did it!" Clint shouts, his face splitting into a grin. He lurches forward and, with a move that makes Bruce hold his breath, punches the Hulk playfully on the shoulder.

A growl rumbles low in the Hulk's chest, and Bruce stares at the screen, waiting for the monster to reach forward and tear Clint to pieces. But then the creature's eyes crinkle and Bruce realizes that he's laughing.

Clint laughs with him, loud and victorious, and he looks nothing like the haunted man who's been dogging Natasha's footsteps.

The Hulk's laughter begins to grow higher as his body shrinks, before cutting off as he collapses into Bruce's unconscious form.

"Nice work, team," Steve's voice says from somewhere out of shot. "Stark, grab Banner and let's get out of here."

The camera starts to move closer to Bruce before the clip cuts off.

Bruce tips his chin up and stares at the ceiling until the texture dances for him. Then he asks, "Jarvis, can you tell me where Clint is?"

Jarvis leads him down to the shooting range several floors underground. The room is constructed much like a bunker; thick cement walls and no decoration. Tony designed the targets so they can remain stationary or be set to move in abrupt, unpredictable patterns, depending on the preferences of the shooter.

He walks into the observation room, behind six inches of bulletproof glass, to find Clint in the range. The archer has traded his bow for a Glock and set eight targets into free motion. He hits the dead center of each one without pause, a quick succession of one two three four five six seven eight, one two three four five six seven eight, drop the magazine, reload, and repeat. The hand he's using to replace the magazines is braced from palm to forearm, but it doesn't seem to cause much of a hindrance.

Clint is quick enough that it only takes a few minutes for the last magazine on his belt to be loaded into his clip, and a couple of seconds beyond that before it falls to join the mountain of others at his feet.

His arm drops, gun sliding into its holster, and though Bruce can't hear into the range, he guesses from the target that flies forward that Clint has asked JARVIS if he can examine it. Clint touches a spot about two inches off from the center of the target, and Bruce can only assume that it was, in Clint's mind, a miss. With a roll of his shoulders, Clint bends and begins picking up the empty magazines.

Bruce presses the button to activate the intercom between the two rooms. Faint clinks of metal on metal feed in from the range.

"Shouldn't your wrist be in a cast?" Bruce asks.

Clint stands, whirls, and pulls a pair of earplugs out of his ears in one fluid movement. There's sweat on his temples and a grin setting fire to his face. He looks so much more alive when he's not grieving his own actions. His amusement is contagious; Bruce feels his lips quirking upward in response.

"It's harder to move around in a cast," Clint explains.

"I think that's supposed to be the point." Bruce holds his own wrist up in a quick demonstration. "If that doesn't heal right you're never going to get back your full range of motion."

"Did they teach you that during your time studying nuclear physics, Doctor?" Clint teases. He gathers up his magazines and carries them over to the table in the corner of the range, dropping them next to a few boxes of ammunition. Bruce doesn't know what it was that scared away the sorrow and regret the man's been carrying around with him since Loki crawled inside his head, but he's grateful; Clint looks infinitely better for it.

"I lived in Calcutta for two years. You learn a lot about fixing people up when you're hiding in a place where almost nobody can afford real medical attention."

Like the rest of his inadvertent demonstration, Clint refills the magazines with easy precision, as though Bruce is just witnessing the latest of the hundreds of times he has done it.

Bruce thinks hundreds might be aiming low.

"I had an assignment in Calcutta about six years back," Clint mentions. "I was there for a week and I almost died from heat stroke. Two years would have killed me."

"You get used to it," Bruce says.

Clint slides the last bullet into place and begins clipping the magazines back onto his belt. He favors his good hand as much as possible.

"I saw the video of you and the Hulk after the battle," Bruce tells him.

Clint's eyes rise to meet his, and despite the glass and distance, Bruce can read the excitement in them. "He was amazing, right? He totally got the concept right away, and it only took a few tries to work out the logistics."

"The 'logistics' being a way to do it without breaking your other wrist."

"Don't you dare try to apologize for that," Clint warns him. "When I was a kid my brother and I used to catch fireflies in the summer. It took me a while the first time around before I figured out how to trap them in my hands without crushing them. It's the same concept. He enjoyed learning; that's what matters."

Clint's smile has been recast into sharp lines of concern. Bruce doesn't know why the hell he feels the need to defend the monster, but apparently Clint's found something to latch onto and the last thing Bruce wants to do is offset his good mood and drive him back to where he was when he first arrived at the tower.

"Just be careful around him, okay?" His tone flirts with begging. "He doesn't process things the same way humans do; he only has one instinct and that's to devastate. Anything you try to teach him is going to go against that."

Clint tightens the straps on his brace. "Maybe he's only that way because that's all he's seen from everyone he's ever interacted with. Maybe the big guy just needs a friend."

"Please don't try to make this into a feel-good movie," Bruce says. "I don't want to be sitting at your funeral thinking 'I did this.'"

"If it comes to that you can be sitting there thinking, 'That stupid bastard; I told him this would happen.' I take full responsibility for my actions and any adverse effects they might have on my health."

"You can't," Bruce says, suddenly able to picture the scene all to clearly. He leans toward the glass and the desk that runs the length of the wall before him cuts into his thighs. "You can't let him kill you. You have to stop him if he tries something, because I won't be able to."

"Hey, hey," Clint says, and then his voice cuts off and Bruce isn't sure what's happened to it; he's too busy squeezing his eyes shut and trying to blot out the images in his mind—sepia images of a funeral layered between highly saturated snapshots of his rooms in SHIELD. Where else would they send an Avenger killer?

"Whoa, hey, okay," Clint's voce picks up again, louder this time and without the echoed quality the speakers add to it.

Hands grab Bruce's shoulders, pulling him away from the desk and twisting him around. Bruce thinks wildly that the contact can't possibly be good for Clint's wrist. Then the hands are gone, replaced by tight arms and the press of a body against his own. The air is filled with the smell of sweat and gun smoke. Bruce inhales it in quick, short bursts as his heart pounds in his chest, danger, danger, danger.

Bruce flails, trying to shove Clint away. "You have to go," he growls through clenched teeth. "I'm not safe."

"Sorry," Clint says, loosening his grip without backing away. "I'm not scared of him and I'm not scared of you."

There's enough give that Bruce could break away if he really wanted to, but the careful, rational side of him is quaking under the realization that he hasn't been hugged in three years, not since Betty, and that he needs this just as much as breathing, just as much as control.

He drops his arms, presses his face into Clint's shoulder, and tries to clear his mind.

Peace comes slowly, trickling in between the pound of his pulse and the howl of his emotions.

Clint holds him until Bruce raises his head and pulls back.

"You okay in there?" Clint asks gently.

Bruce nods. The rage is gone, leaving plenty of room for overwhelming embarrassment. "Sorry about that," he says, heat rushing to the tips of his ears.

"Tasha's watched me lose it completely on two different occasions," Clint tells him. "Having a minor freak out is nothing to apologize for. Especially after you got control of it."

The mention of Natasha sends a new wave of mortification through Bruce. Whatever she and Clint are to each other, it's pretty obvious they're together, and while she doesn't exactly come off as the controlling type—not in her authentic relationships, anyway; Tony would probably have something to say about the rest of her personality—Bruce is pretty sure he's crossed into the grey area of potentially too much physical contact. Granted, he's not female, so he's not the same kind of threat, but the issue remains.

"I should go; there's some stuff in the lab I need to check on." It's a ridiculous lie, but it's the first one he could think of to extract himself from the room. "Thank you for…" His voice trails off as he gestures vaguely, before giving up on specifics. "Thanks."

Clint snorts and waves him off. "Have fun with your science, Doctor."

Bruce is still smiling when he enters the lab seven minutes later.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days after the robot attack there's a thunderstorm that covers the entire state of New Mexico and lasts for an hour and a half. When it dissipates Tony calls Jane Foster and tells her to enjoy the reunion with her demigod boyfriend and then make sure he gets his ass to New York by the end of the week.

He doesn't expect the call three days later asking to arrange a ride from the airport.

Bruce is waiting with the others in the main living room of the tower. It's the first time he's seen Clint since the shooting range and he's made a point to sit as far away as possible from where the archer is perched on the armrest of Natasha's chair. Pepper's joined the group, and Bruce is asking her every question he can think of about running Stark Industries and managing Tony at the same time so he doesn't have to sit in silence and try to figure out what to do with his eyes and hands.

Clint keeps looking at him. Bruce doesn't know why.

The elevator dings and opens to reveal Tony followed by the much larger form of Thor. The god is holding a small suitcase in one hand and has the other wrapped around the waist of a wiry young woman. Mjolnir hangs from his belt, and Bruce wonders how the hell he got it past the TSA.

"My friends, it is so good to see you again!" The Asgardian's voice makes the expanse of the room feel confining. "I have brought my beloved, Lady Jane Foster, to meet you all."

"Hi," Jane says with a little wave. "I've been watching you guys on the news, and on more celebrity gossip sites than I should probably admit to. It's nice to meet you in person."

"Great," Tony says. "There will be plenty of time to talk over dinner at Le Bernardin, for now let me show you the rest of the house. You guys only need one room, right?"

"Yeah," Jane says with a blush.

Thor beams and Tony looks elated. "Finally! Another normal couple who does normal couple stuff. Pepper, weren't you just saying something about wanting to do the whole double date thing?"

Pepper's already making her way across the room. She takes Jane's hand with both of hers. "I was explaining that, when we go out, I like to have a real conversation without an eighty percent chance of you dropping into a monologue about your latest invention," she says to Tony over her shoulder. "You were the one who said we might need to bring another couple in if there's going to be any hope of lowering those odds."

Jane laughs. "Having an actual dinner conversation where I don't have to ask what every third object or place mentioned is sounds wonderful."

Pepper joins their tour, and the four walk off, leaving silence in their wake.

Clint breaks it. "I think we're supposed to be insulted," he says to Natasha.

"Are you saying you want to go on a double date with Tony and Pepper?" she asks.

"I just want to watch you make small talk for two hours while also trying to enjoy yourself."

"What do you think all of my conversations with you are?" she asks, smirking at him.

Clint raises a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Romanoff!" he says, rising from the armrest and crossing the room in a huff. He lands in the seat vacated by Pepper and shakes his head at Bruce. "This is what I get for trying to be friends with a black widow."

"You could always catch her in a cup and move her outside," Bruce offers quietly.

Clint drops his head back and laughs, eyes closed and mouth wide open. Bruce glances from him to Natasha to make sure she's not insulted, and catches her smiling at him conspiratorially. Bruce frowns in confusion and Natasha shakes the expression away.

Maybe he's just reading her wrong.

Steve's the one who brings up the question that's been buzzing in the back of Bruce's mind since he first heard about the lightning over New Mexico. He asks it as the servers clear away the forth course to make room for the fifth. "Thor, what ended up happening to Loki?"

Thor's expression falls. "My brother is being punished for his crimes."

"From what I've read, though, when you tried to exterminate a race of aliens you only had to spend a few days in exile before getting your powers back," Steve presses.

"Do you dare to doubt the Allfather's judgment?" Thor demands, voice booming. Tony has bought out the restaurant for the evening, so there aren't any other patrons they need to worry about overhearing, but several of the servers are trading glances.

Steve rolls his shoulders and straightens his spine. "I just want to be sure he won't be coming back here anytime soon."

"I assure you that my brother is paying for what he has done to Midgard," Thor says darkly. "If he is ever allowed to return here—and, unless his circumstances change greatly, that is unlikely—it will not be until long past the close of your lifetime."

Steve looks less than convinced, but Thor's stony expression doesn't allow for any further questioning. Tony turns to Jane and asks her about her latest research, and after reaching for Thor's hand, she begins to explain what she's been working on.

The evening slowly recovers from there.

It's sometime in the early morning when Bruce wakes to the sound of JARVIS' calm voice.

"Sir," the AI says, "Tony has requested the team's immediate presence in the living room."

"Thanks," Bruce mumbles, digging his palms into his eye sockets. "Tell him I'm on my way."

He can hear Tony before he sees him. Muffled shouting fills the air even through the elevator doors. They open to reveal that Clint and Steve have beat Bruce to the living room. Tony is standing inches away from Clint, screaming in his face.

"What the hell? What the fucking hell? You knew about this and you just, what? Went along with it? Did you agree with them? Did you think it was okay?"

Clint's expression is closed off and angry, he opens his mouth to respond, but stops when he sees Bruce. Tony follows his gaze, fury in his eyes. It changes into something else as Bruce steps into the room.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tony demands.

Bruce wonders which of the Hulk's rampages Tony has uncovered. "I'm sorry, what are you...?"

"You didn't think to mention that the agency we work with had you in solitary for nine months?"

Bruce swallows. He's simultaneously relieved and concerned in a whole new way. "It was eight months. I was able to have visitors after that."

"Eight months," Tony repeats. "And what would have happened if Loki hadn't showed up and given SHIELD a reason to let you out?"

Bruce doesn't have to speculate. He'd be dead by now, nothing left of him but a carpet stain and an unmarked grave.

"Tony," Bruce begins, but Tony is shaking his head in a way that makes Bruce hold his words.

"How the hell can you be okay with that? You live in a house with two of the bastards who did this to you and you don't even blink when Fury snaps his fingers and we all hop to like good little pets?"

"They did exactly what anyone would do with a violent murderer; they put me away where I couldn't hurt anyone else." Bruce's voice echoes in his ears like it's coming from somewhere other than his own mouth. "They weren't cruel about it; they'd give me just about anything I asked for."

"Eight months all alone and that's not cruelty," Tony says.

The elevator dings behind him and Bruce glances over his shoulder to watch Natasha and Thor join the group. Natasha's in her uniform, but Thor is wearing nothing but a pair of red boxers. Bruce wonders briefly whether he sleeps in them normally, or whether Jane insisted he put something on before he left their room.

"What has happened?" Thor asks, meeting the gaze of each Avenger in turn.

"I've been reading through the files SHIELD keeps on us, and I finally got to Banner's." Tony explains. "Apparently, SHIELD locked him away for almost a year."

It's then that Bruce notices the tremor in Tony's profile.

"Tony, are you alright?" he asks.

The billionaire turns, and there's confusion layered on top of the rage. "How can you be okay with what they did?" he demands again. "How can you let them get away with it?"

Bruce doesn't know how to answer. "What would you want me to do?" he asks. "They probably saved lives by locking me away, and now I've somehow ended up saving lives by working with them. Shouldn't that be a good thing?"

"Yeah, because the end always justifies the means, isn't that what history always teaches us?" Tony demands, and Bruce realizes with a jolt that he knows why this is affecting Tony so deeply. Bruce was in Calcutta when it happened, so the the news didn't actually reach him in real time, but he read afterward about how Tony Stark was kidnapped by terrorists and held for ransom in the Middle East until he managed to build his first Iron Man suit and escape.

"It wasn't the same as what happened to you," Bruce says quietly. "I was a murderer."

"People called me the Merchant of Death," Tony shoots back.

"A cave in the desert surrounded by people carrying machine guns isn't the same as an apartment in the city."

"So maybe it was worse for me, does that excuse what they did to you?"

"They didn't—" Bruce begins, but Tony cuts him off.

"Do you ever have nightmares about it? Do you do things just to remind yourself that you're free to do them? Do you have that fear you can't shake that they'll send you back there?" Tony's hand rises absently to trace the edge of the arc reactor beneath his shirt. "Can you tell me you're really okay after that?"

"This seems like a sensitive issue," Steve says when Bruce doesn't respond. "I think we could let it sit for the night and decide in the morning how we want to handle this."

"Really?" Tony asks. "Because I think I should grab my suit right now and go tell Fury what I think about his tactics."

"I believe Tony is right," Thor says. "Bruce is our brother in arms and we should seek Fury out and demand to know why he chose to treat him in such an appalling way."

Natasha grits her teeth like she'd much rather be having any other conversation than this one, but takes a step forward anyway. "SHIELD has protocols for situations where we have to handle people who aren't purposely destructive, but who still pose a significant risk to themselves or others. The first and easiest choice is to put the individual down, the second, kinder, option is to detain them in a way that minimizes their potential to hurt others while still being humane. That's exactly what Fury did."

"Yeah, because if it's protocol then we shouldn't have a problem with it," Tony snaps. "There's no flashing red arrows pointing to a screwed up system there."

"Arguing about this tonight isn't going to help anything!" Steve says, voice rising. "Everyone, take a few hours to finish sleeping and think it over and we can reconvene in the morning."

Tony sneers. "What's the matter, Rogers, are you afraid of Fury?"

Steve starts on a rebuttal, and that's when Bruce walks out of the room. He doesn't stop until he's seated at the main computer in his lab. A few clicks open Tony's music library and he turns Led Zeppelin up until the music rattles his limbs more than his pulse does. He slouches in his seat and massages his hands.

The music fades out mid-song and JARVIS' voice overthrows the speakers. "Sir, Agent Barton is asking permission to enter."

Bruce swivels his chair to glance at the glass wall where the door to the lab is set. Clint waves at him from behind the pane.

Bruce motions him inside before twisting back to turn down the music that JARVIS has let start up again.

"You know," Clint notes, crossing the room and leaning against the desk to look down at Bruce. "If someone had asked me to pick a music genre for you, I would have gone with classical."

Bruce runs a hand through his hair. "Some classical is okay, but a lot of it is too passionate for someone who spends so much time trying to keep their emotions under control."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," Clint says.

"How about you?"

Clint snorts, reaching over Bruce's keyboard for the pen that's lying beside it. He begins taking it apart. "Natasha accuses me of being a hipster, so whatever music you associate with that I probably go for."

"You're a 20-something art student who likes ironic mustaches?" Bruce asks.

"Clearly living in the third world for a while didn't keep you from figuring out current stereotypes. She just uses it to insult the fact that I tend to listen to more obscure bands."

"That's so kind of her."

Clint has the pen broken into four different pieces and he's using the tube of ink to dab little navy freckles on the back of his injured hand.

"So, who do you side with?" Bruce asks.

"What?" Clint's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't look up from his work.

"The argument in the living room. What's your opinion?"

"Oh." He twirls the tube between his fingers while he thinks. "I guess it starts with the fact that people like to fear things they don't understand and everything goes to hell from there. You probably didn't need to be locked away in the first place, but even if you did, I think it was cruel to make you stick it out alone. Okay, so maybe visitors might not have been the best thing some days, but you could have skyped or something."

Bruce laughs, pulling his feet up onto the edge of the chair and wrapping his arms around his knees, because if he doesn't there's no telling how far his emotions will swing in the other direction as his selfish brain asks, 'Then why didn't you help me sooner?'

"It really doesn't matter what I think, though," Clint says. "Yours is the opinion of the hour."

Bruce returns to massaging his hands so he doesn't have to look at Clint. "I just want it to be over so I don't have to think about it any more."

"You don't have a vengeful bone in your body, do you, Banner? You're the biggest saint out of all of us, and that's including the god." Clint pushes the corner of Bruce's chair with the ball of his foot and Bruce spins in a slow circle. "You should be the poster boy for the Avengers or something."

"Yeah, the skinny, tongue-twisted man that no one recognizes. They could put my face on lunchboxes."

"I'd buy one," Clint offers.

"Tony probably would, too; he likes things that are funny."

Clint smiles down at the artwork he's created on his hand, but there's something off about the expression.

"Do you—" Bruce begins, before the lab door slams open and Tony enters. The rest of the team is a half step behind him, all dressed up for a battle against evil.

"We're going to SHIELD," Tony says. "Fury needs to know that we don't support abuse, especially when it comes to one of our own."

"We'd like you there with us," Steve adds, looking at Bruce intensely. "Although if talking to Fury will bring up memories you'd prefer not to face again, we would understand if you chose not to come."

Everything in Bruce screams for him to stay as far away from SHIELD as he can, but if he's not there he won't know what's being said, and if things go badly and SHIELD decides their prisoner-turned-hero is too much of a liability and want to send him back to the apartment, he needs to be there to fight it. Or, at least, be there so he knows it's happening. So he's not woken again in the middle of the night to a needle in his neck and a swarm of people in black uniforms who swim before his eyes and melt away to eight months of silence.

"I'll go," Bruce says, standing.

Clint steps forward, close enough that his arm brushes against Bruce's. "Fury's not going to like this."

"If you think I give a fuck what Fury likes—" Tony starts, but Clint speaks over him.

"I'm just saying—and I'm guessing Nat's already covered this, but it's worth repeating—that this is long haul shit right here. This is us against the most powerful agency on the planet; they're not used to having opposition they couldn't eradicate with a couple well-placed agents, and I'd know, because I usually was one of the people on those teams. You want to make Fury see reason? Great, but you need to realize that man has never apologized for anything in his life, and he's not likely to see the need to start now over the handling of a prisoner SHIELD deemed too dangerous to leave on the loose."

"So we'll make it a first time for him," Tony says. "I can be extra persuasive in my suit."

"No," Bruce blurts out. Five pairs of eyes latch onto him. He digs his short thumbnails into the curve of his index fingers to keep himself focused. "If you really want to do this then it can't be with the suit or with weapons. If you go in there and try to bully him down you'll just reinforce his idea that some people are too dangerous to be out in society. If you really want to try to change things then you have to do it with words.

"Please," he adds when the rest of the team can't seem to think of anything to say.

"Banner's right," Steve says, Captain America ringing in his tone. "Everyone leaves their weapons here—Tony, that includes the suit. We're going to show Fury that we aren't the monsters in this situation."

Thor's knuckles turn white around Mjolnir's handle. "And if the director cannot be made to see reason, what then?"

"We aren't called the Avengers for nothing," Tony says. "We'll just have to remind him of that."

Bruce is getting an itch beneath his skin that reminds him he hasn't been up on the roof in over twelve hours, and really all he wants is a couple minutes with the New York skyline and maybe a cup of chamomile, although he'll take anything, really, over the idea of going up against SHIELD. Running and hiding are his main skill set; confrontation and aggression are more the Hulk's forte, and he'd prefer to stay as far away from them as possible.

"Let's go," Steve commands, and the team follows.

Bruce watches the squared shoulders and purposeful steps of the people who want so badly to right what they've decided is a terrible wrong. He should probably be feeling hope right now, or pride, or appreciation, or something fulfilling like that. All he can drudge up is a pretty strong sensation of nausea.

A hand lands on his right shoulder blade, and Bruce jumps at the contact. Clint, he realizes, hasn't hurried to follow the others.

"I guess we're not really the kind of team that can just leave things alone," Clint notes.

Laughter bubbles up in Bruce's chest and enters the world in a desperate, anxious garble.

Clint's grip tightens, six points of contact, and though Bruce is pretty sure he can't actually feel them, his mind supplies the exact positions of the calluses he's noticed on Clint's hand, where decades of archery practice have planted their memory in his skin.

"It's going to be fine," Clint says, the sincerity in his words running cool water through Bruce's nerves.

The touch ends and Clint walks from the room like nothing had happened. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe that's just how Clint is; steady reassurances to teammates before a conflict. It's nothing special; it just means he's a decent human being.

But Bruce can feel the ghost of Clint's hand on his shoulder urging him forward as he slowly follows.

He feels a bit like Clint pulled something out of him when he took his hand away, and Bruce doesn't know what that something was or if he needs it or if this is just a testament to the fact that not all of his sanity survived his time with SHIELD.

He still wants a cup of tea.


	10. Chapter 10

Bruce sits in the Quinjet, bracketed by Tony and Natasha, and focuses on the small bones that give shape to his right hand. He pinches each one between the index finger and thumb of his left hand and recites the name to himself. Twenty-seven bones he learned in A&P and managed never to forget, if only because they make for a decent calming exercise. It's nothing impressive enough to ward off a transformation, but it's good for idle worry and the jitters of mild to moderate anxiety.

The Helicarrier is playing its role as a ship a few miles off the coast. Natasha made a call to ensure that Fury was there and waiting for the team's arrival just after their takeoff, but the conversation was brief, and there's been nothing but the hum of the jet's engines to fill the silence ever since.

It's not a peaceful hush. Movement flickers in the corner of Bruce's eye every time Tony switches his continuous glare from the side of Natasha's face to the back of Clint's head, and Steve and Thor sit with sharp features and tense muscles across the aisle.

The sensation of being on the edge of battle pricks under Bruce's skin, and he's equal parts surprised and abashed by the whispered wish in his head that he could let the Hulk out to deal with this fight and come back to himself after it's finished to pick up the pieces.

He's run out of bones to name, so Bruce switches to tracing the lines of his palm: Life, Head, Heart, Sun, Mercury, Fate. He went to a palm reader once, back when he was an undergrad. It was the Saturday after winter finals his sophomore year, and although he has never held any belief in divination, he couldn't help thinking that maybe a good reading might be a positive omen in regard to his grades.

The palmist had looked first at his right hand, then at his left, then at his right again, before noting that he was missing the girdle of Venus on both palms. She told him that the girdle was connected to emotions, and that it told the reader how well their subject kept their emotions in control. Bruce had tried not to laugh at the time, because 'mild-mannered' was the truest definition of his character. He had let himself laugh about it later, when the sight of a palm reader's shop in Brazil had reminded him of that afternoon, but it had been out of bitterness rather than mirth.

"Time to put the finishing touches on those speeches you're all writing in your heads," Clint announces. "We'll be landing in just under five minutes."

Tony's expression carves into a grin. "Let's go give that bastard hell."

"We're going to talk about things like civilized people," Steve reminds him, a thread of warning woven through his words.

"Come on, Captain," Tony shoots back, unlocking his seatbelt like pilots always remind their passengers not to do right before the landing. "This is our Declaration of Independence; our Bill of Rights. We're throwing off tyranny and staking a claim in the name of freedom. Isn't this the sort of thing that lights a fire under your star-spangled ass?"

The jet tips forward and then bounces with a jolt that rocks the cabin, causing Tony's shoulder to slam into Bruce's. He offers a quick 'sorry' as the plane vibrates to a stop and a clicking chorus of seatbelts unlatching fills the air.

"Welcome aboard," Clint says, dropping his headset onto the console and opening the jet's door.

Agent Hill is waiting for them on the runway.

Bruce's stomach tightens into a black hole in the middle of his abdomen, but his muscles still react to his mind's commands and so he manages, with stiff movements, to follow Hill's lead into the carrier.

At first he thinks it's a coincidence that he finds himself at the center of the cluster of Avengers, but as they move through the hallways the team shifts around him, an organic shield between him and the rest of the ship.

Bruce wonders if they have any idea how much the gesture means to him.

Hill leads them to a room that Bruce passed a few times during his time on the Helicarrier but has never seen the inside of. Fury is waiting for them at the head of a large oval conference table. He dismisses Hill with a nod and gestures for the team to sit. Tony drops into the chair at the end opposite Fury and kicks his heels up onto the edge of the table as the others shuffle into place. Bruce takes the seat beside Tony because it's the farthest from Fury he can get and Clint lands in the chair next to him. The archer leans forward in his seat and runs his index finger in quick lines across the glossy surface of the tabletop, leaving a series of smudges in its wake.

"So," Fury begins. "Does anyone want to tell me what the hell was so important that it couldn't wait until morning?"

"Maybe you could start by telling us why one of earth's mightiest heroes spent a year locked away in a SHIELD facility," Tony responds.

Fury's eye slides toward Bruce, who finds a sudden interest in creating smudges of his own on the table's glossy surface.

"You didn't seriously come here to argue about SHIELD's policy on handling those who have proven themselves to be a significant threat to the world, did you?" Fury asks, beginning to rise from his seat with the clear intention of dismissing their late night meeting.

"I'd be a threat too if I was attacked by soldiers with guns and tanks every time I made an appearance," Tony spits out.

Fury doesn't acknowledge him. "Banner, if you'd like to file a complaint regarding how the neutralization of the threat that your experimenting posed, then SHIELD would be more than happy to consider it. Now, unless you've come with some new information worth sharing, the rest of you are welcome to get the hell of my ship."

"Yeah, see, you're not listening, though." Tony slides his heels off the table and leans forward in his chair. "The world's defenders—the team you created—just showed up on your doorstep with a problem, and unless you're ready for the Avengers' views on the usefulness of SHIELD and the need for its continued existence to change drastically, I'd suggest sitting your ass back down and trying very hard to make us happy."

"If I were you, Stark, I would think carefully about what the next words out of my mouth were going to be, because that sounded almost like a threat against the lead military law-enforcement agency on the planet, and for all the power and technology you have at your disposal, we are not the kind of enemies you want to make."

"Really? Because it seems to me we're the ones you call when things get too out of control for SHIELD to handle, making us the kind of enemies you don't want to make. Plus, in a battle between its beloved heroes and some secretive government organization, who do you think the world is going to side with?"

"Director, we're not here looking for a fight," Steve cuts in. "But we do want SHIELD to be aware that the Avengers do not support the threat neutralization tactics that we've seen. Going forward, we would like to set up a system where we're consulted before your agency makes any more attempts to handle potential threats."

"SHIELD is not accountable to you and we are under no obligation to share any information whatsoever with the Avengers. You were our initiative and you are under our authority," Fury says in a tone that threatens to crumble mountains.

"So you expect us to sit by while you set up your own Guantanamo?" Tony demands, fists landing solidly on the table as he jumps to his feet to lean over them.

"The humane handling of one global threat is hardly the foundation for a detention camp," Fury spits out. "But even if it were, we would not be overstepping our authority in any way by creating one. SHIELD exists to protect the world, and that's exactly what we're going to do, with or without your approval."

"I am here as a defender of Midgard, as well," Thor says. "Yet I cannot condone the detention of a good man in the name of protection. You claim that you are for the good of the world; why, then, would you seek to lock Banner away when it has become so obvious that his monster needs only space, direction, and a clear enemy in order to become a formidable ally?"

Fury snorts. "Maybe you're forgetting his actions on this ship when he was so clearly out of control that he attacked and tried to kill our people, including some of you."

Bruce jumps at the touch of a hand on his wrist, and he follows the limb upward to where Clint is watching him with a frown. It's then that Bruce realizes he's shaking.

Clint's eyes slide to Natasha, and the assassin shakes her head minutely before turning her focus to Fury.

"Everything with power is dangerous," Natasha says, her voice quiet and her expression smooth. "That's why SHIELD keeps constant tabs on all of us. But danger isn't the same as a threat; otherwise you would have tried to lock us all away instead of putting us together to fight the Chitauri. We're the most dangerous people on the planet right now, and we're asking that you have the decency to let us help make decisions about how you handle other beings that you consider a potential problem."

Clint's hand is moving again, his index finger beginning to rub small circles over Bruce's pulse point. Bruce realizes that, on top of the shaking that doesn't seem to have abated any, his heartbeat has begun to pick up speed. He feels like a child; struggling to control his own emotions while others fight on his behalf. It makes him more angry than he'd like to admit to, more angry than is safe on a contained craft where there's no traditional enemy and no room for the other guy to blow off some steam safely.

Clint must notice his slide towards crisis picking up speed. The archer's on his feet in an instant, tugging Bruce out of his chair and offering the others a brisk, "We'll let you sort of the details on your own. Come and find us when everything's settled," before retracing their steps back out into the smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves.

The lights on the flight deck are bright enough to block out the stars, but Bruce looks up anyway, imagining the positioning of the constellations over their heads. It's not perfect, not with the planes and the tarmac and the SHIELD officers giving them wary glances as they walk past, but the wind scatters Bruce's curls over his forehead and he can look from horizon to horizon; East Coast on one side, open Atlantic on the other, and it's good enough.

Clint drops Bruce's arm, and Bruce expects him to back away, but instead the archer moves closer, shoving Bruce with a force that makes Bruce wonder, absently, if he should really be applying that much pressure to his broken wrist. Bruce takes a heavy step back.

Clint follows the retreat, pushing him again. "Do it," he says.

"Do what?" Bruce asks, although the nausea rising in his stomach hints that he already knows what Clint is referring to.

"You were about to change, so change."

Bruce shakes his head, darting backward as Clint closes in again. "No."

Clint movements are fluid, and he has the advantage of not having to travel backwards. He shoves Bruce again, hard, and Bruce staggers, pulse throbbing in his temples. "Why should Fury agree to anything we're asking if you're more on his side then you are on ours?"

"I'm not on his side," Bruce says.

"Really? I think you're more scared of the Hulk than he is."

Agents are staring. Bruce wonders how long it will be before they decide to step in.

"Clint," Bruce says quietly, trying to give a subtle gesture towards their audience.

If Clint notices, he doesn't let on. "You know why Fury's okay with you being out of your cage now? Because you don't need the concrete and steel anymore; you've taken the cell and rebuilt it in your mind where nothing can get in and damage it, not even you. You're just as trapped as you ever were, and Stockholm Syndrome tells you you're better off that way."

Clint slams his palms into Bruce's clavicles again, the force strong enough that Bruce trips over his own feet and lands hard on his left knee. The archer stands over him, expression deadly, and fear lights up in Bruce's brain.

Then Clint is crouching down, eyes level with Bruce's and features softening. "I'm not any better than he is; just one more person trying to tell you what to do. Don't listen to any of us, but don't listen to the fear either. You're not alone anymore; it's not just you and the Hulk, it's you and him and the rest of our team; five people who are ready to get up in the middle of the night to make sure you two are okay."

Bruce curls in on himself a bit more, running his fingers into his hair and tightening them for the illusion of control over something. He's not helping his concept of being a child. His chest tightens and his breathing turns to gasps.

His thoughts trace back over Clint's words and something shifts inside his mind, something catching the light for the first time, something, something, something rattling around inside him and bouncing off the walls Clint described so perfectly. It's a frenzied madness, an illogic—the idea that the past can somehow be rewritten by the present, that the Hulk can do anything on this ship besides wound and destroy—but he raises his head to meet Clint's gaze.

Clint is smiling. "Let him out," he says. "Let him out and I'll take care of him."

"How?" Bruce asks, resolve cracking under the pressure of the thought that's ricocheting in his brain. "You don't even have your bow with you."

"I don't need it," Clint says. "Let him out."

Bruce rises. He looks around at the agents still watching their exchange and bares his teeth at them in the illusion of a smile, "I'd get back if I were you."

Clint jumps to his feet, the expression of a child on Christmas morning bright on his features.

"This is stupid," Bruce tells him.

"All the best plans are," Clint agrees. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

Bruce nods, and lets his mind fill with static.


	11. Chapter 11

It's pain first. Burning agony so overwhelming it short-circuits Bruce's thoughts and cripples his ability to breathe in anything more than short, shallow gasps. He, the man who stuck the barrel of a gun in his mouth not two years ago and pulled the trigger, hasn't felt this much pain in a long time. He wonders if this means SHIELD has found some way to curtail his time on the planet and realizes, with a wave of shock almost as strong as the pain, that he's not so sure he wants that anymore.

The noise comes second. Shrill screams and rapid gunshots fade in and out between explosions that make Bruce's ears pop and ring. There's something else, too; something threading it all together, but Bruce has to concentrate to realize it's a voice, steady and quick and somewhere a few feet up and a step or two away.

"Come on, Bruce, come on. Cap, watch out for the yellow one coming up fast on your ten o'clock. Bruce, wake up, come on, wake up so we can get you out of here. Widow, back off those two and let Thor handle them; I need you covering my ass over here. Bruce, wake the fuck up."

Bruce sorts out which muscles control his eyelids and opens them, before snapping them shut an instant later in reaction to the sunlight. He's been gone for a while, then.

Bruce garbles a few consonants to the outline of Hawkeye—bow raised, splinted arm reaching back for another arrow—that's been burned into his retinas. The non-words scrape up his throat and over his lips like broken glass.

"Widow," Hawkeye's voice barks.

A second later Bruce feels two fingers on his neck, pressing for a pulse, and several more brushing over his shoulder. The light contact is enough to make Bruce gasp in pain.

"Bruce is conscious. His pulse is stable. The chemical burns on his left shoulder and arm are looking worse, but the skin seems to be intact. I'm going to move him. Widow, take my spot; Iron Man, cover me."

The fingers on Bruce's left shoulder are replaced by a hand on his left arm, and he tries not to scream as he's dragged to his feet, his arm thrown around a pair of shoulders while another hand grips his right hip.

"I'm sorry," Clint says through what sounds like gritted teeth. "We've got to get you out of here before we can do anything about the pain."

There's another explosion what sounds like yards away from them, and Clint spits out a curse, dragging Bruce off to the right.

Bruce cracks his eyes open again, trying to figure out what's going on. There's concrete beneath his feet and skyscrapers poking up in all directions. Bruce can see Natasha a few feet away on the edge of what Bruce realizes is a roof, guns in both hands and eyes in constant movement. There are several giant wraith-like creatures floating around in the air, but Natasha's attention seems to be focused down below the roof's edge.

Red and gold flash into view as Iron Man lands in front of Clint and Bruce. "I can give you a lift," he offers. "It'll be faster than taking the elevator."

"Yeah, but we're less likely to be attacked when we're not attached to a flying red target," Clint counters, pulling Bruce towards what Bruce guesses is the door to the stairs.

"Millions of dollars in R&D and you'd prefer to stand around in a metal box," Tony mutters, but Bruce can hear the thudding footsteps of the suit moving to follow them.

"What happened?" Bruce chokes out. The question sends him spiraling into a coughing fit. He doubles over in pain and holds his free hand to his mouth. When he pulls it away his palm and fingers are coated in blood.

"The city's been attacked by sentient forms of the different elements," Tony explains as Bruce stumbles through the door, down a flight of steps, and into an elevator. His own breathing and Clint's hands on his body are a constant torture. "Not all of them, obviously. We've seen Magnesium, Carbon, Fluorine, Chlorine, and Bromine—that's the one responsible for you looking and feeling like shit right now."

Bromine: liquid, vapor; corrosive to skin and an irritant to the nose, throat, and respiratory system. He's going to need a shower as soon as possible. The burning in his mouth and throat is a bad sign, as is the fact that the reaction was enough to revert him back to human. The effects don't usually hit full potency until a few hours after the exposure, but the fact that he's conscious is probably a good omen.

Bruce tries to decide if it's worth the pain to attempt asking for further explanation. Clint seems to guess his train of thought before he's reached a conclusion.

"They showed up about four hours ago, and their mission is to either wipe the human race out or turn us into element-human hybrids."

"How did we get back to the city?" Bruce asks between breaths, trying to stave off another coughing fit.

"Widow, Captain and I took the Quinjet. Thor flew, and the Hulk was carried by Iron Man."

"Your alter ego's quite the squirmer," Tony adds. "The trip took twice as long because I kept having to fish you back out of the water."

Bruce shifts his weight to lean against the wall of the elevator so Clint doesn't have to support him. He expects the man to step away, but instead Clint moves with him, maintaining their contact.

"How are the others?" Bruce asks.

"Well enough that two of us can commit some time to getting you to safety," Tony says.

"The only problem is we're still not quite sure how to stop them," Clint adds.

"I could try to change back again," Bruce offers quietly, doing a quick analysis of his wounds and how long he could hold out as the Hulk before succumbing to them.

Clint shifts, leaning forward so he can catch Bruce's gaze, eyes ice-blue and expression too layered for Bruce to spare the energy to decipher. "You know that's the first time I've ever heard of you offering to change?" he asks. "Any other time and I'd jump at that, but not now. You can be a superhero again when you're healed."

Bruce snorts at Clint's terminology, but he can't pull his mind far enough away from the pain to construct a witty retort.

The elevator dings before anyone has anything else to say.

"Okay, you've made it street level, where half of the monsters are running around," Tony notes as Clint draws Bruce away from the side of the elevator and toward the door. "What's the second half of your plan?"

"Steal a car and head to a hospital," Clint says.

"You'll be a slow-moving target and you're not going to find a hospital anywhere within a five mile radius that's not inundated with victims of the attack. Let me fly the two of you back to the tower; I've got medical supplies there and JARVIS can walk you through whatever you need to do to help him."

Clint seems less than convinced, but the longer they wait the more Bruce can feel the bromine residue eating away at him. "That would be good," he offers.

Clint nods slowly. "Keep us low to the ground and away from the battle's hotspots."

"Of course," Tony says, stepping into the near non-existent space between Bruce and Clint and wrapping an arm around each of their waists. "I'm nothing if not the spirit of discretion."

Clint snorts. Bruce tries to offer a response, but the sound is drowned out in a gag as Tony's grip tightens unbearably and they begin to hurdle sideways toward an alleyway.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and counts as high as he can in Russian to distract himself from the sensations.

It feels like an eternity before their speed slows and the ground returns beneath his feet.

Tony lets go as they enter front doors. "JARVIS," he shouts. "Bruce has been exposed to bromine. Do a full-body analysis and walk Barton through the treatment. And you might as well keep the supplies out when you're done; with our luck someone else is going to end up needing them." The last of the words trail off as he steps outside and heads back to the battle.

"Mr. Barton," JARVIS says, "If you would be so kind as to help Dr. Banner into the elevator, we can take him up to the medical ward on the twenty-third floor."

"No," Bruce says. "My room first. I need to try to wash the residue off my skin."

Clint is already helping him into the elevator before JARVIS says, "Very good, sir."

"How long was I unconscious?" Bruce asks as he hits the button for his floor.

"Just under an hour. The Hulk was doing fine, and then Bromine grabbed onto your arm and you couldn't shake him off. You were unconscious in six minutes and back to human in another two. Thor flew you up to the roof after that, but we didn't have time to move you anywhere else at first."

"Okay," Bruce breathes, adding the information to what he already knows. The elevator dings and Clint pulls him down the hallway and to his door. Bruce pushes it open and points Clint in the direction of the bathroom. He half expects Clint to leave him at the bathroom door, but the archer helps him inside, leans him against the countertop, and steps over to the shower to turn on the water.

It's then that Bruce has the presence of mind to—in a jolt of self-consciousness—glance down to see if his pants survived his transformation. They're ripped in several places, but thankfully still intact.

"Do you need a special kind of soap or anything?" Clint asks, turning back to him.

Bruce shakes his head. "What's in there should be fine. I'll have JARVIS tell me where to find some sodium carbonate to treat the burns when I'm done, but for now I just need to wash off."

Clint takes a step closer to Bruce. The bathroom, which is at least double the largest one Bruce has ever had before moving here, begins to feel too small. Clint raises his hand and gently runs his fingers over the burns on Bruce's shoulder and down his arm. His touch softer than on the roof; a tingling sensation on the damaged skin rather than straight pain. Part of Bruce wants to pull away and part of him wonders if this is something he should probably confess to Natasha later and a sudden, viciously strong part of him wants to lean into the contact; wants, confusingly, to touch back.

A shiver runs through Bruce at that realization, and Clint drops his hand. "Sorry," the archer says, averting his gaze and putting a good foot of extra space between them.

Clint frowns after a moment and his eyes catch Bruce's again. It's then that Bruce realizes he's leaning forward, trying subconsciously to close the gap that Clint has made. Heat rushes to his cheeks and the tips of his ears as his heart begins slamming around in his chest. He begins to pull himself back when Clint's hand rises again, this time to wrap around the back of Bruce's neck.

Hot face, thundering pulse, the sensation of fingers in his hair, and then Bruce is being overwhelmed by chapped lips and the scent of leather and bowstring wax.

The kiss is nearly over before Bruce realizes what is happening. Clint pulls away with a small smile, toys with the tips of the hair at the base of Bruce's skull, and then leaves the room in silence.

Bruce is glad for his grip on the countertop as he closes his eyes and rations his breaths.

It's not until he's stripped out of his pants and stepped under the spray of the three showerheads that his brain reminds him he's not actually gay.

He spends the rest of the shower trying to sort things out.


	12. Chapter 12

It takes more time and energy than Bruce feels like he has right at the moment to scrub his skin to his satisfaction. By the time he's done, the steam from the shower has eased the pain in his throat and lungs a little, but the chemical burns on his skin feel open and salted.

He leaves the bathroom exhausted, shaking, and convinced that the kiss was nothing more than an 'I'm so glad you didn't die' rush of adrenaline. A band of brothers sort of thing.

Bruce is dressed in nothing but a towel slung around his hips when he walks into his bedroom to find Clint balanced on the back of the sofa by the fireplace in a one-armed handstand. The archer cranes his neck, eyes meeting Bruce's for an instant before his legs drop—back arching into a bridge—and he plants his feet on the edge of the couch. Clint steps lightly to the ground like he hasn't just blurred the laws of gravity.

Bruce is stuck in the no man's land between embarrassment and curiosity. He ensures that his towel will stay in place with one hand and asks, "Where did you learn to do that?"

"I ran away and joined the circus when I was a kid," Clint says.

Bruce waits for the laugh that will signal that Clint is joking. It doesn't come.

"JARVIS said sodium carbonate meant washing soda," Clint says instead, reaching for a yellow box that wasn't on Bruce's coffee table when he last walked through the room. "He told me where to find it."

"Thanks," Bruce says, reaching for the box. "Have you heard anything from the others?"

"I checked in with Nat a few minutes ago; she said that the elements disappear into thin air when cornered. They're down to three last I heard, and she said the team would probably be back here in an hour or two."

"Good," Bruce says, waiting for Clint to head for the door. The mention of Natasha is enough to make him feel guilty for the kiss, regardless of how obvious it was that Clint didn't mean it in any sort of romantic way.

Instead, the archer gestures to the box in Bruce's hand. "How are you supposed to apply that?"

"I think the easiest way would be to make a paste, smear it on, and then cover it with some kind of bandage."

"Okay," Clint says. "I'll get some gauze and something to mix the stuff in and let you put some shorts on before your blush heats up any more and catches your hair on fire."

Bruce drops his gaze. He hadn't noticed the heat in his cheeks, but now that Clint has said something he can feel it intensify. He covers his face with his free hand.

Clint chuckles on his way out of the room.

By the time he returns, Bruce has pulled on a pair of jeans and thought about adding a tank top, only to dismiss the idea a second later when he realized it would cover up part of his burns.

Clint drops a roll of gauze on the bedspread, plucks the box of washing soda from where Bruce set it on the dresser, and heads into the bathroom without slowing. Bruce follows him in, watching as Clint dumps several inches worth of the powder into a glass, adds some water, and stirs it into a thick white paste.

"Is this okay?" Clint asks, holding out the cup.

"Yeah." Bruce reaches to take it.

Clint pulls his hand back. "You're going to need help getting it on," he notes as he steps out of the bathroom and sits down on the bed beside the roll of gauze.

Bruce stares after him.

"Come on," Clint says, gesturing to the open stretch of duvet beside him. "JARVIS said we should get this stuff on you sooner rather than later."

Bruce runs his fingers through his wet curls, smoothing them away from his forehead, before he follows. He perches on the edge of the bed and rolls his shoulder forward so Clint can get at the burns on the back of it.

Clint smears the mixture on with his fingertips, the contact deft and gentle.

Bruce stares down at the patterns of the threads in his jeans and decides that this is just another one of those things that soldiers do for their comrades.

"What did I miss?" he asks, because this is a normal, typical interaction, which means there should be some normal, typical conversation to go along with it.

"We played tag on the flight deck," Clint says. "I'm pretty sure the Hulk won."

"How?"

"Well, he's faster than me, so it's sort of a given."

"No, I mean, how did you get him to play?" Bruce clarifies. "He doesn't play games unless there's a body count involved."

"He does if you take the time to teach him how." Clint sets the glass down on the nightstand and starts wrapping the gauze around Bruce's arm upper arm. "I had to stop a few times to remind him it was a game, but I think he had fun."

"How did SHIELD react?"

"We had a pretty big audience by the end of it. Half of the agents there know about your time in detainment; I think watching the Hulk keep his shit together was probably just as strong an argument for our cause as anything the rest of the team said to Fury."

"Did they tell you what happened with him?"

"There wasn't really time," Clint says. "I did get the impression that the meeting wasn't tied up in a nice bow, but that's not exactly surprising when it comes to our beloved director." He finishes with the gauze and raises his hands to Bruce's shoulders, twisting them gingerly so he can get a few different angles on his work.

"How does that feel?" he asks.

Bruce rolls his arm in its socket, testing his range of motion as well as the level of pain as the gauze rubs the paste into his burns. "It's good. Thank you."

"We should get you to the med ward so JARVIS can check you out," Clint says, standing. "He said there could be some serious problems if you inhaled too much bromine, and I know the Hulk spent enough time with the element that that could be a problem."

His time as the Hulk and the pain of his burns is enough that all Bruce really wants to do right now is crawl into bed, close his eyes, and float away from everything for a few hours. But JARVIS and Clint are probably right; the burning in Bruce's throat and lungs has slowly grown back since his shower, and it's probably wise not to ignore it and hope it goes away. He pushes back the pain and exhaustion and forces himself to his feet.

He and Clint walk to the elevator in silence.

Bruce hasn't actually used the medical ward before. He got the once-through on each of Tony's grand tours, but this is the first time he's needed anything inside the wing.

JARVIS seems to recall that. "If you'd be so kind as to step on the platform to your right, Dr. Banner," the AI says as they walk into the wide room, "I can do a quick scan to determine if you need further medical attention."

The platform is a steel circle raised about six inches off the floor. Bruce steps on to it, and although there's no visible machine at work, the room around him begins to hum.

"Thank you, sir," JARVIS says a moment later. "You may step down now."

"How is he?" Clint asks.

"Dr. Banner appears to have mild to moderate bromine poisoning, as expected. Unfortunately, there is no cure, but it appears that the exposure wasn't extensive enough to be devastating. With your permission, Dr. Banner, I'd like you to come back once a day so I can monitor your progress and turn you over to medical professionals if your condition worsens."

"Sure. Thanks," Bruce says, stepping off the platform just as Clint's phone begins to ring, reminding Bruce that he had his own phone on the Helicarrier but it was gone from his pocket by the time he stripped down for his shower. He's pretty sure it's at the bottom of the Atlantic by now.

"Hawkeye," Clint answers, and Bruce wonders whether he should mention the phone to SHIELD, or just ask Tony to build him a replacement.

"Do you want us there?" Clint asks the person on the other end of the call and then says, "I'll ask." He turns to Bruce. "We won and the rest of the team wants to go back to SHIELD for round two with Fury. They want to know if you'd like to be there for it."

Less than twelve hours ago Bruce had a whole collection of good reasons why he should be in on meetings concerning himself and his continued freedom, but his burns are throbbing and it feels like he's been inhaling fire for the past hour. He reaches up to settle a hand over his bandaged shoulder. "I think I'm going to sit this one out. Please tell them to keep it peaceful."

"We're going to let you guys handle it," Clint says into the phone. "Bruce says play nice if you can." He 'uh-huh's, and then hangs up the phone.

"Tasha says she'll try to keep Tony from talking, but no guarantees," he explains.

Bruce nods. He jumps when Clint catches his arm and wraps it around the archer's shoulders. "You look dead on your feet, Doctor," Clint says, his free hand curling around Bruce's waist and reminding Bruce that he's shirtless as Clint's fingers settle on the bare stretch of skin over his hipbone. "Time to get you to bed."

"I can walk on my own," Bruce tells him, trying to keep pace with Clint as the archer guides him from the room. Every point of skin on skin contact hums electric along Bruce's nerves and he wants to expand it, prolong it, distil it and study it under a microscope. The sensation is overpowering, and he needs to pull away before something happens.

"Hey." Clint's voice severs his thoughts. "We haven't even made it to first base yet and you're already looking a little green. I'm flattered that I have that effect on you, but maybe you should get some sleep before letting the other guy take over."

Bruce's muscles lock up and Clint falters slightly at the stop.

"I'm not gay," Bruce tells him.

"Okay," Clint says, left eyebrow arching.

"And you're with Natasha," Bruce continues before his brain can override his mouth.

"Really? Does she know that?"

Clint is grinning now, and between his expression, his words, and his fingers that won't let go of Bruce's wrist or hip, Bruce is getting the sensation that he can feel the planet spinning on its axis and hurling through space, and he's pretty sure he's going to lose his balance in a minute.

Or his lunch.

Or his control.

Clint, if he notices, doesn't comment on it. "Are we talking 'not gay' as in you've tried it and didn't like it or 'not gay' as in you haven't felt that way towards a guy before? I need to know my odds here."

Bruce pulls back, dropping his arm from Clint's shoulder as Clint's fingers slide from his hip to his the small of his back before falling away altogether.

"There are no odds," Bruce says, centering his weight on the balls of his feet and monitoring the rhythm of his pulse. "I'm not gay, and even if I was, I can't have sex because of the whole 'turning in to a big green monster whenever my heart rate gets too high' thing."

"We fight aliens and robots and anthropomorphized incarnations of the elements, and you think your heartbeat is really enough to draw a line that we can't cross?" Clint snorts, but the amusement scatters before it reaches his eyes. "You don't get to live through hell just to pitch a tent at the edge and call it good. If you're saying no because you're not interested, then I get that; I'll back off and we can be kickass teammates together, but if you're saying no because you're giving up without even trying then fuck that.

"I watched you in your apartment at SHIELD," he adds abruptly. "We were supposed to keep you under surveillance, because SHIELD was scared you'd Hulk out and go on a rampage."

Bruce thinks back to his blanket forts and his conversations with Ender and Winston and Noname Protagonist. He knew, of course, that SHIELD was watching him—how else could they have read his supply requests?—but the image of nameless, faceless agents monitoring his actions is much different than the thought of Clint sitting in an office, hunched over a cup of coffee as he watches Bruce's decent into insanity. The heat in his cheeks and ears sparks back to life.

"God you're beautiful when you're flustered," Clint says, closing the gap between them by a few feet. "No, listen, you lasted eight months in solitary and you can still hold up your end of a normal conversation. You could have unplugged from reality completely, but you didn't. You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I find that extremely hot."

Clint reaches out to rest his thumbs on Bruce's cheekbones and push his fingers into Bruce's hair. The archer leans forward, bringing their foreheads together.

"Your choice, Bruce," Clint says softly, his clear sky eyes filling the expanse of Bruce's vision. "But choose wisely."

The tension of the moment snaps as Bruce coughs up a laugh. "Did you just quote Indiana Jones at me?"

Clint winces. "Nat warned me against using movie references, but sometimes they slip in when I'm not paying attention."

"You're crazy," Bruce tells him. "And you need to take me down off that pedestal you've created."

"Okay. Sorry about that." Clint's hands drop to his sides and he takes a step back.

"Look," Bruce says. "I've been straight my whole life and I've been blocked by the Hulk from any sort of physical relationship since the gamma rays, but if you think you can change those two aspects of who I am then you have my permission to try. You just need to be ready to back off when I tell you to so you don't end up as a red stain on the sidewalk."

Clint's expression breaks into a smirk. "Hey, the Hulk likes me; I can probably get him to join my cause."

"Maybe you should try seducing him instead," Bruce says. He takes a step toward the door, the action jerking his injuries and causing him to hiss. Clint pulls Bruce's arm back over his shoulders and secures his hand on Bruce's hip before the doctor can react.

"Let's try this again," Clint says, guiding the way to the elevator. Inside he flexes his fingers over Bruce's hipbone as they wait for Bruce's floor. The elevator dings and Clint helps Bruce down the hall and into his room, shutting the door behind them without an explanation.

"The 'straight and can't have sex' thing went right over your head, didn't it?" Bruce asks.

"No, I get it," Clint says.

Bruce sits down on his bed, wishes he had chosen pajama pants instead of jeans when he was dressing himself, and waits for Clint to continue.

Clint indulges him. "You're tired, I'm tired; why can't we just be tired together?"

"Are you volunteering to sleep on the floor?"

"You have a king-size bed. You get the side you usually sleep on"—Clint gestures to where Bruce is sitting, before rounding the bed. "And I'll just be over here. Completely innocent."

Clint is grinning, showing off too many teeth for 'innocent.'

Bruce has to give him points for creativity.

"Fine," he says, asking JARVIS to dim the lights as he pulls back the covers and crawls between the sheets. "If you're going to stay you should tell me about your time in the circus," he says to Clint.

Clint focuses on untying his shoes, back to Bruce. "Not right now."

"Why not?"

"No one wants to hear a sad story before they go to sleep. Is it going to make this awkward for you if I take off my uniform?"

Bruce arches a brow, although Clint doesn't turn to see it. "Are you wearing anything underneath it?"

"Boxers," Clint says over his shoulder.

"You do realize you're coming on a little strong, right?"

"It's not like I'm going to do a striptease for you, although if you wanted one…"

"Fine, you can take the uniform off, but I'd prefer it if you held back on the striptease. Or don't," Bruce says, shifting so his back is to Clint and closing his eyes. "Just do it quietly."

Clint's laugh gives way to the sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothing. The mattress shifts as he settles in.

Bruce rolls back over, eyes tracing the patchwork pattern of scars woven over the muscles of Clint's torso. Bruce has never been attracted to men, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate good features when he sees them. "Why bring this whole thing up now?" he asks.

"Because you look badass shirtless and bandaged up," Clint says with a smirk.

It's nice, Bruce realizes in the haze between waking and sleeping, not to fall asleep alone. He hadn't recognized how much he'd missed this until now. It scares him, because if there's one constant theme of Bruce's life it's that all good things end, and usually it happens sooner rather than later.

Bruce drifts off to the image of blue eyes and quirked lips and the sound of steady breathing from lungs not his own.


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce wakes up to pain and, more interestingly, the sensation of a hand wrapped around his wrist. He's not new to the experience of waking up in an unknown setting, but people usually give him a healthy amount of space when that happens.

He opens his eyes and the events of the morning come back to him at the sight of Clint asleep on his side, knees pulled up to his chest and his splinted arm tucked beneath his pillow. His other hand is the one wrapped around Bruce's wrist, and Bruce glances down at it and realizes that Clint has two fingers pressed to his pulse point.

This would be the part in the book, Bruce realizes, where the protagonist notes how young their bedmate looks when stripped of their intensity and professionalism.

Reality doesn't work that way. If anything, Clint looks older.

His jaw is set in a grimace, the hollows under his eyes are darkened by the lamplight neither of them bothered to turn off, and the scars on his arms and torso that had made Clint look intrepid when paired with a smirk now run together into an illustration of the kind of life everyone wants to hear about, but no one actually wants to live.

Clint's eyes open, focus, and then crinkle at the corners as a smile reaches them. "You were watching me sleep," he accuses.

"It was better than staring at the ceiling," Bruce rasps, trying to will away the heat that's trickling into his face.

Clint lifts Bruce's wrist and plants a chapped lip kiss on the backs of his fingers before letting go. "How are you feeling?"

Bruce begins to shake his head, but the movement pulls at the skin of his shoulder and he curtails the progress with clenched teeth.

"Bad, I'm guessing," Clint supplies, pulling back the duvet that Bruce had hiked up over his shoulder. "Wow, okay, let's get you back in the shower."

"Any particular reason, or are you just trying to get me out of my clothes?"

Clint pulls the duvet forward into Bruce's line of sight. The underside is a glossy red that Bruce doesn't remember seeing when he went to sleep.

"It looks like the gauze is pretty well stuck on the burns," Clint observes. "The shower will loosen it and then we can do a rewrap, or maybe call a doctor, depending on how things look under there. Can you get up?"

Bruce tries to make a mental list of things he'd like to do less than get up, but he can't think of anything to put on it. "What if I just lay here until it heals itself?"

The bed shifts, lighting pain through Bruce's wounded arm, as Clint moves to stand. "Come on," Clint says, reaching for Bruce's wrist and squeezing. "Get up and I'll tell you about how I ended up in the circus."

Bruce snorts.

Clint's grip tightens. "Take a deep breath and breathe out in three, two, one."

The snort turns to a hiss as Clint slings Bruce's arm around his shoulders and drags him from the bed.

Black spots overlap at the edges of Bruce's vision, and he can feel his heart rate picking up as he stumbles in Clint's grip. Even with the countdown, he's not ready for the sensation of the bandages yanking on his raw skin. He can't focus.

"Almost there." Clint's voice is garbled. Bruce tries to use it as an anchor, but it's too far away to latch onto.

He locks his legs and shoves hard against the warm solid at his side. It won't be enough to get Clint to safety, but at least he'll have a second's warning.

At least he'll have some idea of what's happening when the Hulk wakes up vicious from the pain.

Not enough, Bruce's mind whispers. Not enough, not enough, not enough.

Bruce wakes up to the sensation that someone's extracted his mind from his body. His nerves and muscles, if they're there at all, don't seem to want to respond to any commands. Locked-in syndrome, maybe. He can't feel his heartbeat, either, and wonders whether that should be a concern or relief.

There is no way to keep track of time without his eyes or other senses, but it feels as though time passes before the ears he must still have pick up on murmuring. It's the quick, consistent rhythm of a news reporter rather than a conversation, although as soon as Bruce has decided someone's left him in a room with a television on another tone cuts in, lower and slower, with a bit of a rise at the end. People, then, probably. Live people close enough to be within hearing range.

He focuses on the voices, wills his mind to decipher them, but they cut off before they can slither into coherency.

In the quiet he can feel his thoughts slipping, and without his heartbeat he has no way of knowing whether he's settling into a nap or beginning step one of a homicide. Bruce tries to fight it, but there's nothing to hold onto against the oblivion.

Steve's voice, close at hand, breaks into his fears. "Alright, Dr. Banner, it's time to wake up now."

Bruce's muscles and senses come flooding back after that. He opens his eyes to see the high ceiling of the medical wing.

"Okay, so far so good. How are you feeling?" It's Tony's voice, but it's wrong. Bruce turns his head and is met with the sight of Iron Man in a dented suit.

'No,' Bruce thinks, as he twists his head to the other side where Thor, dressed in scuffed armor, is holding Mjolnir in hand and Captain America is beside him, suit torn and bloodstained and shield half-raised. 'Not again, please, not again.'

"Okay, Bruce," Tony says. "I really need an answer here."

"Is Clint..?" Bruce asks. The realization that his voice is no longer a rasp flickers in his mind before being drowned out.

Thor's grip on his hammer tightens as Steve's eyes turn toward Tony.

Tony takes a breath deep enough for his microphone to pick up on. "He's still alive, last we heard, but he's not doing well."

Bruce nods, forcing himself to keep going before the information sets in. "What happened?"

"You transformed," Steve says. "JARVIS alerted the rest of the team as soon as it happened, but we don't know what triggered it. By the time we got to him, the Hulk was climbing down the outside of the tower carrying Clint."

"The Hulk wouldn't let us get close enough to really tell how bad things were," Tony adds. "But we could see that Clint was at least unconscious, and that he had some broken bones and a gash on the side of his head. We tried to grab him, but every time we started closing in the Hulk freaked out and began attacking us, which really wasn't the best thing for Clint's condition. He was clearly trying to carry Clint somewhere, so we ended up just trailing him and doing damage control until SHIELD sent out a team with tranquilizers."

"Where is Clint now?"

"Nassau University Medical Center; it was the closest hospital with a trauma unit," Tony explains, feet clanging against the floor as he shifts positions. "He's in surgery right now because the ribs on his right side took a pretty intense beating and two of them punctured his lung. Natasha's there and she said she'd call as soon as they give her an update."

"How about you take a few deep breaths?" Steve says, and Bruce follows his line of vision to the silent cardiac monitor he hadn't realized he was hooked up to. Watching the jitter of his heart rate on the screen is less than helpful, so Bruce closes his eyes and tries to dig past the horror and the guilt and the regret and get down to the sound of his breathing and the feel of the sheet beneath his hands. He gives up after a few seconds when it's clear that his mind won't let him past what he has done, and he can't think of any reason why it should.

"Did the Hulk hurt anyone else?" he asks, opening his eyes.

"No," Thor answers. "He avoided any people in his path and only attempted to injure our team when we came too close."

"It was almost like he realized what had happened to Clint and was trying to help him," Tony adds. "I mean, his method was really shitty, but there wasn't anything in his actions to imply that he wanted to hurt anyone."

"No, he just beat Clint into critical condition and then dragged him away from anyone who could help him. He seems like a fantastic guy. I'm sure the three of you are only here in case he shows back up so you can congratulate him on his great first aid skills."

Thor's expression is dark and Steve slides his weight forward onto the balls of his feet. Whatever reaction they're starting is cut short when Tony says, "Guys, I've got Romanoff on the phone. JARVIS, can you put her on speaker?"

Steve glances down at Bruce, his concern about how Bruce might react to whatever update Natasha has for them nearly audible. He doesn't voice a command, though, before Tony says, "Tell us how he is."

"Clint's out of surgery," Natasha's voice says through JARVIS' speakers, tone sterile. "They moved him to the ICU to monitor in case fluid starts to build up in his chest. They also stitched up the cut on his scalp, but there's some concern that he was hit hard enough to cause brain damage. They won't know anymore until he wakes up."

"Keep us posted," Tony says.

"Of course." A click completes the conversation.

"One of us should head over there as soon as possible," Steve notes, running a hand over his hair.

Thor raises Mjolnir. "I will go. Natasha should not have to wait alone."

"Okay, so that's one very small problem solved," Tony says. His head tips down and Bruce can feel his gaze behind the metal mask. "You gotta help us out here, Bruce; what's the best way for us to help you and the other guy?"

The answer is easy; Bruce has known it since he first heard Tony's voice echo from his suit. It's also the one he knows the rest of the team will try to counter, either out of concern or an ignorant sense of duty.

Lying has never been a skill of Bruce's, so he uses the truth, instead. "I don't think I'll be much of a liability for the next few hours," he says, closing his eyes again and taking the deep breaths that will force his pulse to slow. "I'm exhausted; you can have JARVIS monitor me while the rest of you check on Natasha and wait for news about Clint. Nothing much is going to happen until I get some sleep."

With closed eyes, Bruce can't gauge their reactions, but it also means he can focus completely on keeping his heart rate low.

"Are you going to be okay by yourself?" Steve asks, causing Bruce to open his eyes just so he can figure out why Steve apparently missed the last thirty seconds of conversation.

"I told you," Bruce begins, but Steve cuts him off. "No, I mean, are you going to be okay here with the knowledge that Clint is in the hospital because of something the Hulk did?"

Bruce scrambles for something to say. "I can't change what happened, and I obviously can't do anything to fix it," he says. "I might as well get some rest so I can deal with whatever the next step is."

It's hard to read Steve's expression behind his mask, but the sharp line of his mouth tells Bruce he's less than convinced.

Bruce feels pinned to his hospital bed by the weight of the silence, before Steve glances up at the ceiling. "JARVIS, make sure nothing happens to him."

"Of course," JARVIS responds.

Steve looks back down at Bruce and rests a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Let him know if you need us," he says. "Even if it seems like a minor thing."

"Sure," Bruce says.

Steve nods for a moment too long, before he backs away from the bed and leads Thor and Tony from the room.

Bruce forces himself to wait until the clock on the far wall says six minutes have passed before he says, "JARVIS, I need a favor."

"How can I help you?" the AI responds.

For all of the antsy waiting, it takes Bruce a few seconds to force out his next words. "I need you to connect me with Director Fury."

"Of course, Doctor Banner; right away."


	14. Chapter 14

"I know you'll have to tell Tony that I've left if he asks," Bruce says as he reaches to the back of his closet for the duffel bag Natasha had given him when he first decided to stay at Stark Tower, "but can you tell him it was my choice? And tell the rest of the team that, if they want to help me, they should stay away."

"I can," JARVIS says. "Although Mr. Stark is not the sort to be swayed from his desire to help in whatever manner he thinks is best."

"I know, but try to hold him off as long as possible."

Packing doesn't take long; in spite of Tony's pushiness, Bruce hasn't accumulated much during his stay in the tower that can be stuffed into a bag. Within five minutes, he's zipping up the duffel and powering down his phone to leave on the nightstand.

"JARVIS, don't let any of them think they didn't do enough," Bruce says, slinging the bag onto his shoulder.

He makes it to the elevator before adding, "And tell Clint I'm sorry."

"Of course, Dr. Banner," JARVIS says. "Best of luck."

"Thanks."

There's a sleek black car waiting on the curb outside the main entrance of the tower.

Bruce slows his pace as two men in suits climb out and flank either side of the open car door. He's a threat, of course, but he still tries to prove by his walk that he's not on the edge of losing control.

He makes it within six feet of the car when one of the men steps forward, arm rising, and Bruce tries to brace for the blow that looks aimed for his head when he feels the jab of a needle in his neck. He has enough time to wonder if they measured the dose of sedative for him or for the Hulk before he loses control of his senses completely.

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It isn't a slow waking, and Bruce regrets that immediately, because his eyes aren't even open yet and he already knows exactly what they'll see. The image comes with an ache; the sensation of having been carved out. He'd told Fury they'd have to move him quickly so that the rest of the team wouldn't figure it out until it was too late. He hadn't mentioned that he needed the speed to keep his mind from processing what his decision had meant.

He wonders if Ender, Winston, and the unnamed protagonist have missed him.

The ache grows worse, and Bruce reminds himself that he knew this was coming; that there's only ever been one possible conclusion for him since the gamma radiation and he's known all along that every good thing has an end.

He still waits a few minutes before he can force his eyes open.

The ceiling is wrong.

Wrong shape, wrong color, wrong light fixture.

The hope that maybe he hasn't been placed back into his SHIELD apartment only lasts for an instant before it's twisted into panic. Fury would only decide against sending Bruce back to the apartment if he thought it wasn't enough containment. He'd only pick somewhere else if that place offered a new level of security, something even worse than the last cell.

An electronic melody jars the silence and makes Bruce jump. There's a laptop, he realizes, sitting open on the table beside the bed. He sits up and pulls it onto his lap, reading 'Incoming video call' on the text box in the middle of the screen.

His fingers shake as he clicks 'Accept.'

The screen fills with crinkle-edged eyes and a faint smile. "How are you feeling, Bruce?" Agent Phil Coulson asks.

"Better than a dead man, I'd imagine," Bruce says, trying for flippant, although his voice shakes.

"I've been recomissioned," Coulson explains. "Not even the dead get to rest in peace if SHIELD decides it needs them."

"Digital reconstruction, right?" Bruce studies the man on the screen. "Someone did a good job. Did SHIELD decide I'd respond better to the illision of an interaction with someone I've had a good experience instead of whatever agent you've got controlling your interface?"

Coulson's image gives a broader smile, exhaustion bleeding through at the edges. "Fury may have exaggerated my death slightly."

"I watched the security footage from the attack and Natasha got us a copy of your medical report," Bruce says. "You flat-lined and the EMTs were unable to revive you. They declared you dead on-site."

"I was, technically," Coulson agrees. "They didn't get my heart started again until I was in the med unit."

"And Fury brought you in to chat with the unstable ex-Avenger. Is this to ease you back into your job?" Even as he says it, Bruce wills it to be untrue. He would much prefer the idea of a fake Coulson who will keep him company to a real Coulson who will leave him to his own insanity as soon as the agent is well enough to take up his old position.

And, oh, that's new; the immediate panic for what's to come. It wasn't this quick the last time he was under SHIELD's control. Although, of course, last time he didn't have the experience he does now.

The memory of Clint's mouth, warm and dexterous against his own, rises abruptly in Bruce's mind, lasting only a second before it's replaced by the image of Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America explaining the Hulk's latest rampage.

"Somewhat."

Bruce waits for Coulson to add to that thought, but the agent doesn't.

"Do you know how Clint's doing?" Bruce asks instead.

"Romanoff reported a little over an hour ago that he woke up and was able to answer basic memory questions, but that he doesn't seem to remember the attack. They should be moving him out of the ICU within twenty-four hours. If he heals the way they expect him to, the doctors will be lucky if they can get two weeks before he breaks out."

"Good," Bruce breathes. The relief is overwhelming. The Hulk has killed before—Bruce can replay every memory of stumbling back to awareness and having to take stock of just how much his latest lapse in control had cost with more detail than he can draw from any other recollection in his mind—but, somehow, the idea that it could be a teammate—could be Clint—made the potential so much worse.

But Clint's alive and healing, and Bruce realizes that that's enough to override the panic at being locked back away. It's a trade he'd make again, easily, if given the choice.

"The rest of the team doesn't seem to be aware of your departure yet," Coulson's voice says, and Bruce realizes he's been lost in his thoughts for some time. Less than a day back in solitary and his social skills are already scattering.

"JARVIS knows that I'm gone, but I don't think he'll mention it to them unless they ask," Bruce notes. "They might try looking for me after they've spent so much time arguing with Fury."

Coulson inclines his head. "Fury's already expecting that."

"Will they be able to find me if they look?"

"It's not impossible," Coulson says. "but it'll take them time. Barton and Romanoff don't know about your new apartment, and there's no mention of it in any of SHIELD's records. They might be able to track how we moved you, but that's been pretty thoroughly covered up."

Bruce nods. "Have Fury tell them this was my choice and then try to keep them as busy as possible—he could have someone line them up a few public appearances if things are quiet on the earth-saving front. Tony will probably try to look for me because he's stubborn, and Steve might join him because of loyalty to the team, but if they can see that the Avengers are better off without me then they'll lose interest eventually." In that moment, Bruce can't tell what he wants. The sooner the team gives up their search, the easier it will be for him to accept that this is his new life; no going back. But if they do search—and, worse, if they're successful—then Bruce will have to tell them himself that he wants to stay. He'll have to stand on this side of an open door and look into their faces and try to convince them that this is better for everyone. Regardless of how true that may be, Bruce isn't sure he has the resolve for it.

"I'll let him know your thoughts," Coulson says, before his tone changes. "Is there anything you need?"

"I'm not sure; I haven't had the chance to look around yet." It's a struggle to keep his voice even and bite back the plea of 'Please don't leave me' that gurgles in Bruce's throat. This is only day one, he reminds himself. He's not allowed to beg on day one.

"The set up is pretty similar to your last apartment," Coulson explains. "Just write down anything you want on the whiteboard and we'll do what we can to accommodate."

"Sure," Bruce says. "Thanks."

Coulson nods. "I'll check back in soon."

The connection ends, leaving Bruce staring at an unchanging screen.

He watches it for a few minutes, willing whoever is using Coulson's image to come back, before he nestles the laptop into the duvet at his side and climbs out of bed to look around.

The apartment isn't any bigger than the last one SHIELD had put him in, and less than half the space he had at Stark Tower, but the layout is new and the color scheme is different—muted greens and browns with forest photos this time—and it's enough to keep Bruce occupied for a bit as he noses through cupboards and reorganizes drawers.

The space is well-stocked; the fridge and pantry are lined with foods Bruce had requested during his last stint in captivity, and the closet by the front door is full of supplies to continue the experiments he had begun last time. He wonders if this is some kind of reward; save the world a few times and you earn some extra consideration to the contents of your cell.

Whatever pride Bruce has grown back since his last time with SHIELD makes him wish he weren't quite so grateful for that.

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Bruce is startled to the point of dropping his mug of tea when his laptop rings again, sometime around mid-afternoon the following day. Coulson's image again fills the screen when Bruce accepts the call, leaving the tea to stain the carpet.

Their conversation is more stilted than the last after Coulson updates Bruce on Clint's improving condition. Coulson refuses to answer any questions about the rest of the team beyond what Bruce has already learned from his, once again limited, internet connection, and Bruce is too scared of being left alone to press for answers. Instead, he settles for superficial questions about Coulson's health in light of being dead.

It takes eight days for Bruce to stumble across the Youtube video.

He reads about it in a blurb on a news site, and by the time Bruce watches the clip himself, it has six and a half million hits.

The video—shot, Bruce assumes, with a Stark phone, given the perfect picture quality in spite of the constant shaking of a weak camera hand—makes Bruce run to the sink to empty his stomach before he's made it twenty seconds in. The subject of the clip is wounded, badly. The worst of the injuries are bound up in white and cream wrappings, but mottled bruises seep out between the folds and Bruce strings the glimpses of them together like constellations into the shape of behemoth hands. Threaded through it all is an acrid blend of anger and dread that Clint can't seem to keep from his eyes as he stares into the camera.

"My name is Clint Barton, current Avenger and former SHIELD agent," the archer says, words just a bit too slow, as if he has to concentrate to deliver them in the correct order. "Earlier this week, my friend and fellow Avenger, Bruce Banner, the Hulk, was abducted from outside Stark Tower by SHIELD agents. I believe he is being held against his will because SHIELD thinks that the Hulk might one day pose a threat if sufficiently provoked."

The video pans at a sharp angle, showing the contents of a hospital room, as Clint switches his grip on the camera.

"They've done this to him before, and the Hulk repaid them by helping defeat Loki and the Chitauri. He is not a threat and he doesn't deserve to be locked away like one. If you have any information that could lead to his rescue, please contact me or one of the other Avengers. You will be more than compensated if your tip leads us to him."

The view shifts again, Clint fumbling for the button to stop the recording, before the shot turns back to his face. "Bruce, I don't give a damn what Fury and JARVIS have to say. Fucking figure out a way to contact us and Tony and Thor will be there to pick you up before you've finished sending it." Clint takes a breath, ready to start on a new sentence, before pausing. He looks into the camera for a moment, before the view tilts once more and the video ends.

Bruce reads a few of the comments before he stretches out on the couch and stares up at the ceiling.

His muscles are stiff by the time he finds the desire to move again.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He and Coulson don't talk about it, although there's no chance SHIELD hasn't seen the video, or the wave of support in its wake. At first Bruce searched through it for hours, terrified that SHIELD would decide it wasn't something he needed to see and the internet blocks would slide into place.

Four days later, though, Bruce can still access the Tumblr blogs and Twitter feeds plastered with his image and filled with support, can still get updates on the team's latest requests for information—everything from Steve holding a press conference to Thor appearing on The View.

Bruce wonders if they have any idea how much harder their concern makes things for him, and then hates that he can twist their worry into something he finds distasteful. He is not anything close to the selfless, humble man their interviews make him out to be. They have taken the idea of him and twisted it into an effigy, a fragile figurine held together only by their warped memories and idealism.

A hero to the masses, a savior of mankind, an unwavering defense against the villains of the universe.

Bruce reads about himself until he can't stomach anymore, and then spends his days thumbing through biographies and talking to Coulson about nothing. All sensationalism fades eventually, and when the team realizes that the public has lost interest and they're still not any closer to finding Bruce, they will let go and move on.

It will take longer than Bruce had originally anticipated, but eventually things will calm down and the world will be safe from him.

Worry settles into the crevices of his mind, because 'the world' is not the original term he'd used when he formed that thought. Originally, he tries not to recall, it had been 'Clint.'


	15. Chapter 15

Ellen DeGeneres gives a gasping, flushed-face laugh as she drops back into her chair. "Well, at least I don't have spend any more time wondering how you fit into the cat suit," she says.

"Self defense is always a good work out," Natasha agrees with an easy grin as she follows Ellen to the chairs. She's dressed up as a civilian; flats and jeans and a sweater that accents her curves, topped off with warm make up and a 'girl behind the Widow' demeanor.

"Alright," Ellen says. "So now that I can at least pretend that I know fifteen different ways to stop an attacker with my bare hands, let's talk about why you really agreed to come on the show."

Natasha's smile straightens out, and she tucks a loose curl behind her ear before folding her hands together in her lap.

Ellen continues, "I'm sure by now we've all heard of the Free the Hulk movement, and it's obviously already gotten a lot of grassroots support, as well as attention from some pretty big names, so what's the next step now that the concern is out there?"

"First of all, I want to express how grateful we are for the way people have rallied behind this," Natasha says, eyes, soft-edged and earnest, scanning the audience and cameras before returning to Ellen. "The responses have been overwhelming, and we've been so encouraged by everything that's happened so far."

"It's been such an amazing thing to watch," Ellen agrees. "I mean, you've managed to unite people across the globe with this."

Natasha nods. "There's also been a lot of discussion about things like how much power one organization should have over public safety in the US, and to what level that organization should be accountable to the public it protects, which are clearly wonderful questions that should be talked through, and ones that I, being a former SHIELD agent, find especially important."

"Makes sense."

"I'm just worried that all the discussion about these broader issues will slow up our main objective at the moment, which is to get Bruce Banner out of SHIELD custody," Natasha says, every aspect of her posture and expression pulled taunt with concern. "I was one of the agents assigned to monitor Bruce the last time he was in captivity, so I know first-hand the psychological damage that was done. Because of SHIELD's paranoia, they kept him completely cut off from all human interaction. He was in solitary confinement for months, and by—"

Natasha's voice cuts off as Bruce closes the tab. He stands, walks into the kitchen to check the contents of the fridge, and walks back to the couch; the same lap he's made seventeen times since waking up this morning. Not that there's been much distinction between waking and sleeping this week; Bruce can't sit still for more than five minutes, can't lie down without getting up just to pace the apartment, can't sleep unless it's the eventual slide into complete exhaustion, only to wake an hour or two later and repeat the pattern.

Coulson still chats with him, but the sessions grow shorter with each passing day as Bruce slips away from the screen sooner, his flicker of interest growing dimmer with each conversation.

His imaginary friends won't visit him, even when he tries to focus enough to summon them up in his mind.

'The team will come,' Bruce's thoughts whisper to him a thousand times a day. 'Just another minute, just another door to unlock or fuse to blow and they will come.'

There is nothing crueler than a rigid hope in something that should not—cannot—happen.

Bruce was ready for insanity, of course, but nothing like this.

This is what he explains, in curtailed gestures and agitated words, to the agent behind Coulson's face on the twenty-third day of his captivity.

Coulson is quiet for so long that Bruce has to carry the laptop into the kitchen and start the kettle just to keep himself somewhat focused. "What do you want, Bruce?" Coulson finally asks.

Bruce runs his fingers back into his hair, digging nails he hasn't cut in some time into his scalp. "Let me talk to them."

Coulson shakes his head. "You know I can't do that."

"Not in person, obviously," Bruce says. "Let me make a video. SHIELD can edit it as much as they want, they just—I just need to tell them to stop."

"I'll talk to Fury," Coulson says, and the chat ends.

Bruce's computer is silent the next day, and again the day after. His request, he is realizing with horror, was too much. That, or Coulson's life model decoy was actually Coulson in the flesh all along, and he's finally reached the point where he's well enough to return to work.

In the end, the reason doesn't matter. Bruce is alone, except for the damnable hope that grows mold in the creases of his brain and sets fire to his nerves.

On the third morning of silence, Bruce begins building a blanket fort to trump his previous attempts in his last apartment. He starts by pulling the mattress off his bed and dragging it into the living room to serve as the floor, before gathering every piece of furniture in his apartment into the small space of his living room, lining the walls and forming the framework for his structure.

Bruce is halfway through anchoring the blankets to his fort when his computer begins ringing. He scrambles, bumping into the side table by the couch and collapsing the network of blankets he's just created as he maneuvers to get to the other side of the ring of furniture, where his laptop is perched on the kitchen table. He manages to click 'accept' before the caller gives up.

A spasm travels Bruce's spine; Fury glares at him through the screen.

"Coulson tells me you want to make a video," the Director says.

"Yes," Bruce says, and wonders if Fury is referring to Coulson by name because he is, in fact, alive, or if he is just feeding the illusion.

"And you actually believe there's something you could say that would change the world's mind about you being here?"

"No, but I don't really need to." Fury looks less than thrilled with Bruce's ambiguity, and the doctor rushes to explain. "I just need to convince Steve and Natasha. If Steve is on my side, he'll call off the Avengers, and if Natasha agrees with him she can dissuade Clint."

Fury studies him for a long time, before saying, "You're welcome to try, although we won't release it without reviewing the video and deciding whether it will help or add to the issue.

"Bruce," he adds, authority rumbling in his voice. "I know you returned to SHIELD by choice, but I also know that preferences change. Try to slip anything in that would lead the Avengers to find you, and you will lose all communication privileges indefinitely."

Bruce's first instinct is to take his request back. He can live with the torture of anticipation if it means he'll still be allowed to talk with someone occasionally—better that then going back to the silence—but this isn't just for him, Bruce realizes with sudden conviction. The rest of the team deserves closure just as much as he does, because if it had been one of them who reverted to captivity he wouldn't consider a few words of consolation from an AI good enough reason to give up. He'd hunt too, of course, because that's what any decent friend would do.

He shouldn't, Bruce realizes, expect anything less from them.

Fury is still waiting for a response.

"I'll be careful," Bruce promises.

"Good," Fury says, ending the conversation.

Bruce spends the next hour and a half drafting an outline of what he wants to say. He discovers it's hard to find a medium between, "I'm fine, I appreciate your concern, please stop looking," and a rambling apology for what the Hulk has done and a plea for his own imprisonment, ending in a list of the reasons why the team would be better—and the world safer—without him.

It doesn't help that Bruce keeps catching himself no longer writing to Steve and Natasha, or even the Avengers as a whole. Instead, he's giving explanations or slipping in remarks that only Clint would appreciate.

By the end, he's left with seven pages of rabbit hole monologues in a legal pad and nothing that he feels will come together into anything other than the disjointed thoughts of a man who has been locked up for too long.

Not the most persuasive way to convince the team he doesn't need rescuing.

He throws the legal pad onto the ruins of his fort and reaches for his laptop instead, turning on the webcam. His digital reflection shows a man with dark eye sockets and fidgeting hands. A compelling argument, but not for the side Bruce wants.

Bruce heads to his room, turning on the floor lamp and sitting down on the naked box spring. The effect is a bit better; the lamplight is softer than the fluorescent bulbs of the living room and helps hide the exhaustion smeared across his face. Bruce tucks one hand under his thigh and forces himself to keep the other on the keyboard, out of the camera's line of sight.

He smooths his expression and studies his image again. His hair is wild and his shirt is wrinkled, but it's less mentally-anguished-prisoner and more scientist-who-got-caught-up-in-his-work.

Good enough.

"Hi," Bruce starts, before realizing he's looking at his screen rather than the camera. He raises his gaze and tries again.

"My name is Bruce Banner, and I'm making this video in response to all of the demands for my release from SHIELD."

Bruce gives into the itch to lift his hand off the keyboard to try to smooth down his hair a bit before he continues.

"I appreciate all of the concern, and it makes sense that the Hulk helped stop some attackers, so he comes off as a hero, but it's not... He attacked Clint Barton; I've haven't seen an interview where any of the Avengers mentioned that. The Hulk isn't a misunderstood guardian; he's violent, and it only takes one slip for that kind of violence to devastate.

"Whatever the team has said about my living conditions at SHIELD is probably well-intended, but exaggerated." He glances around the room and wishes he hadn't stripped it of furniture. A quick view of a nicely furnished home would probably put people at ease. "I have a whole apartment—bedroom, kitchen, living room—and they give me basically whatever I want, including contact with members of SHIELD. The biggest flaw is your tax dollars are probably being spent a little too freely to make me comfortable.

"I asked them to put me here, and if you truly respect my freedom, you should let me make this decision for myself."

Bruce stops the recording and plays it back a few times. It's a solid argument, but that's about it; all facts and no feeling. He turns the camera back on.

"Guys," he says, and this time it's not to the world, not to the internet, not to YouTube; this time it's to the team. "I appreciate that you want to help me, and after you've fixed the world a few times the messiah complex sets in and it seems impossible that you could meet someone you can't save, but I'm not a victim and I'm not a tool; I'm not going to come back just to count the days until the Hulk has his next rampage. Most of you know exactly what it feels like to be turned into a weapon against your will, and maybe it's different for me because I did this to myself, but I still don't have control when the other guy takes over, so I'm going to do what I can with the part of my life that's still mine. Leave me alone, keep saving the world, and have fun being superheroes; you deserve it."

He stops the recording, but starts it again the next second. "Clint, I'm sorry." Bruce licks his lips, trying to form words around the cramping in his chest. "I'm so glad you're alive, and I already know you're going to be a stubborn ass about trying to find me, but I am asking you to please let it go. I tried the freedom thing and it didn't work, so this is where I need to be.

"I hope things work out for you." Bruce laughs, the sound hollow in his ears. "Maybe you'll find your brother after all of this; restore that relationship."

Bruce realizes that his eyes have wandered down to the baseboard running along the far wall. He looks back at the webcam. "I guess that's it. Have fun saving the world."

He saves the file without watching the rest of it and closes the laptop. The jitters are gone for now and nothing's swept in to replace them.

Bruce wanders out into the living room and collapses onto the nest of blankets he hadn't meant to create.

His brain swings instantly from 'nest' to 'bird' to 'Clint,' and the cramping in his chest tightens. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in the scent of sheets washed in too much detergent, and waits for the pain to go away.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, here's the deal; the incredible woman who has always been an adopted grandmother to me is dying. A week and a half ago she was completely fine; living on her own, driving herself around, and living life. Last Friday night I stayed over at her house because she hadn't been feeling well, and I called 911 in the early morning because she was having trouble breathing. They rushed her to the hospital and preformed several tests, one of which was a brain scan. They found six malignant tumors in her brain that showed signs of bleeding, and two days later she had a massive seizure, triggering a sharp decline in her condition. She asked to spend her last days at home, so my mom and I have been working around the clock to make sure she is as comfortable as possible during this time. All that to say, everything else in my life has been put on hold. I love this story and do plan to continue it, but for now, I am not emotionally stable enough to write anything worthwhile. Here's the little bit that I had written before all of this started, although it's not anywhere close to a complete chapter. I will write more when I can. Thank you all for your interest in and patience with this story; it means a lot to me.

Bruce is still waiting for the pain to stop four days later, when he clicks on a link that takes him to the video of himself—SHIELD approved, apparently. It went up sometime after he succumbed to sleep in his finally-built fort, and the comments already number in the hundreds.

He scans through them, searching for any that might be from the team. Closure, he's decided, is probably about the only thing that will ease the pain in his chest.

In the end, Bruce doesn't find any, and he wonders if that's because the team hasn't seen the video yet, or because they don't feel the need to respond, or because SHIELD is censoring the whole thing. He makes himself a salad and wills Coulson's call of the day to come soon.

The slide into complete obsession is an easy one. Bruce checks the comments on his video a thousand times a day at minimum, silently begging Clint—any of them, Bruce corrects himself; he'd be happy with any of them—to respond.

Like an idiot, he had thought that the video would help things. In reality, it's only exacerbated the problem.

The realization makes him laugh; of course he would only make things worse for himself. When has he ever not?

\---------

Bruce has stopped asking for things. He's been living the past week off of herbal tea and the dwindling supply of brown rice in his cupboard. It's hard to worry about malnutrition in the context of his days.

He assumes that's what SHIELD is addressing when Coulson tells him to check his porch six days after his video went online.

Instead, he finds a large cardboard box with the label of:

Bruce Banner

c/o SHIELD

Wherever the Fuck You're Holding Him

The box has clearly already been opened, in what Bruce assumes was a search for any contraband, but it's still real and here when he hoists it with shivering arms and brings it inside. He shoves it into his blanket fort and crawls in after. SHIELD may already know everything that's in there, but that doesn't mean they get to watch Bruce react to it. He'll be careful, he swears to himself; he won't let anything happen.

He unpacks the box with reverence: a plate of cookies with a post-it on the plastic wrap that says 'Hope this brightens your day! Love, Jane;' a Russian textbook with 'Stay strong. -Natasha' written inside the cover; sketches of the team—Bruce included—sprawled on the couches in the theater room on one page and gathered around the breakfast table on the next—'I didn't know what you'd want drawings of, so I just sketched stuff from our lives. Sincerely, Steve;' a notebook titled 'If You Can Make The Math Here Work Out, I Will Personally Fund The Building Of Ten Thousand Orphanages In Whatever Countries You Pick' and filled with equations; a pair of sheepskin slippers tied together with a ribbon and a 'From Pepper' tag; and a grocery bag full of store-bought snacks and a note that says 'For my mighty friend in arms, Banner,' which Bruce can only assume is from Thor. And that, Bruce realizes as he tries not to react, is everything in the box.

It's more than enough; so much more than he could ever possibly have hoped for. The fact that SHIELD is letting him get mail at all is amazing, and the possibility that he could have some kind of safe, controlled contact with the outside world should thrill him.

Bruce repeats these thoughts to himself as he organizes the collection, turning the box over to use as a table to display everything on.

He lifts Thor's bag, and an envelope drops onto the mattress. Bruce fights his first instinct to toss the bag aside and scramble for the envelope. Instead, he sets the snacks down safely on their makeshift stand before retrieving it.

The envelope has already been torn open and is still tacky in places along the edge where the flap was ripped into. Inside is a piece of notebook paper that's ragged along the left edge. Bruce unfolds it carefully, eyes flittering over the blocky script, before he forces himself to start at the top, at the part where his name has been written once and retraced a dozen times, the letters bold on the page where the lines piled together.

Bruce,

I was going to make another video, but Coulson said a letter might be better this time around for security whatever, so if you're missing my beautiful face, blame him, and if you're preferring not having to watch me, I guess he can take the credit for that, too.

Coulson's alive, by the way. He said you already knew, but Nat and I are still getting used to it. I thought she was going to stab him when he showed up at the tower, but that probably would have been counterproductive.

I swear I'm not writing just to talk about Coulson. Also, for the record, this is not you winning the argument. I don't think you gave staying at the tower enough of a chance, but I do understand why you left. I'm completely fine, just so you know. I don't know if you've been watching the news, but I'm back to work and everything, so if you're worrying about that, you can stop. I've been hurt worse working for SHIELD, although at SHIELD I didn't have to recover in a mansion surrounded by people who kept trying to feed me and make me watch movies with them, so I guess I can blame you for that.

Anyway, I miss you; the tower sucks without you. Steve wants you to know that we all still consider you an active member of the team, Tony says he's not touching any of your experiments until you get back, and Thor is incredibly concerned that SHIELD may be mistreating you, which probably isn't all that unfounded, so try to give us a sign or something if that's the case. In the meantime, our main objective at the moment is to convince Fury that, since you chose to be locked away of your own free will, you should be allowed to have visitors if you want them. We'll try to get Coulson to keep you updated on that, and he said you could write us back as long as you 'follow proper procedure,' so I am fully expecting a reply and will be crushed if I don't get one.

Clint

There's a postscript added in the same handwriting but a different ink, and Bruce assumes Clint had put the letter down and come back to it later.

P.S. Don't fucking let this be the end of you, Bruce. I can completely understand wanting to keep people safe, but don't just waste away in there. You can do good and the Hulk can do good; work with that. Just make sure SHIELD knows if you decide to transform or anything; they're jumpy shits for some reason.

The ink switches again when Clint adds:

P.P.S. What happened with the Hulk doesn't change anything, just so you know.

Bruce rereads the letter a half-dozen times, smoothing out the folds and rubbing his thumb over Clint's name. He doesn't know what the second postscript means, not objectively, and his thoughts are starting to run mad with it.

He forces himself to put the paper down, picking up Steve's drawings instead. The sketches have a bit of an old-school comic book style to them, and Bruce wonders if he should ask SHIELD for some frames, before he opts to grab some tape instead, avoiding eye contact with the cameras around his living room as he snatches the tape from the drawer by the fridge and crawls back inside the fort.

He hangs the sketches from the edge of the table holding up one corner of the blanket roof and tapes Clint's note up in between them, before pulling it back down. He needs to be able to hold it; to trace his fingers over the words and pretend that he can smell bowstring wax clinging to the paper.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you all the world's biggest apology for falling off the map for nine months. My adopted grandmother died peacefully in her home, and both my mom and I were able to be there with her at the end. Things went as well as could have been hoped, given the circumstances, but it's been a really tough process adjusting to life without her, and I haven't been able to force myself to write anything since the last chapter. All that to say, I'm so sorry I've left off continuing this story for so long, and I'm also sorry for the adjustment period as I relearn how to write the characters and the plot. Thank you all so much for sticking with me through everything; updates should get relatively faster from here.

Almost an exact week after the care package from the Avengers arrived, Bruce gets a video call from Coulson. Not that the event is unusual; Coulson still chats with him almost daily, although the conversations have started to feel more like a strain than a comfort.

They shouldn't be; if Bruce was smart he'd still cling to them, giving off every indication that they were the most vital part of his life, so that Coulson wouldn't give up on them, but Bruce has a strict no-cameras-in-the-blanket-fort rule, and it's becoming harder and harder to spend any of his time outside of it. He knows the logic isn't sound; the apartment SHIELD's keeping him in is small enough; he shouldn't constrict himself any more than they have. But he's become the unwitting founder of a religion of one; built himself a temple of stuffy sheets and cramped space where he worships at his cardboard box shrine, Tony's note pad a holy book he spends hours poring over, and Clint's letter his own strand of Rosary beads, worried between his fingers to the point where the paper drapes like cloth and the ink is half-unreadable.

This time, though, when Coulson comes on he's wearing an eye-crinkling grin.

"I've got some good news for you, Bruce," he says. "You've been cleared for a chat with the Avengers today if you're up for it; we just need to go over some safety guidelines first."

Bruce's initial reaction is shaky-hands thrill.

His second is terror.

They were supposed to have had closure; the team said their piece, and Bruce had given them--and the world--the laundry list of reasons why he had made the right choice coming back to SHIELD. He knows--of course he knows; he's still genius under everything else. Strip him down to organs and nervous system and he's a man of compulsive intelligence and no wisdom--that he's not at his sanest inside these walls, that the outside observer might assume that he's not experiencing the best of environments, and that he may not be living the healthiest of lives as a result. But the world has decided to call him a superhero, and he might not have the muscle mass of his alter-ego, but he can still play the champion, can still save the world from the monster, and, really, isn't it more impressive that he doesn't even need a team for that? Doesn't even need to go green; Robert Bruce Banner, nuclear physicist from Dayton, Ohio--the man afraid of his own heartbeat--is saving people by sitting on his ass in a blanket fort. He may have gotten off a few stops early for the station of "well adjusted," but he's finally doing some good for humanity.

"Bruce," Coulson prompts. The grin is gone; he's switched his expression to SHIELD neutral.

It's then that Bruce realizes he's laughing, and that Coulson's image is warped by the tears that haven't yet made it down to join the ones dripping along his face.

"Not today." The words crack loose from somewhere deep in Bruce's chest, worming their way up between the laughter and sobs vying for control, and he is so proud and so horrified of them all at once. "Tell them I'm sorry, but I can't talk today."

"Alright."

They won't want to believe him, Bruce knows; they'll call it conspiracy on SHIELD's part to keep him isolated. He does a breathing exercise that doesn't work half as well as it should, because he's rushing it and his emotions are at the border of being too far gone, but he pulls himself together enough to add, "If I recorded another message in a little while and SHIELD approved it, would you pass it along to them?"

"If SHIELD does approve it, yes," Coulson says.

Bruce nods, still fighting for every steady breath he takes.

"There's one more thing I'd like to talk to you about, Bruce, although it can wait if you'd prefer not to discuss anything else right now."

"You might as well go for it," Bruce says, scrubbing the last of the tears away. "Get everything out of the way at once." He doesn't need one more mystery to obsess over.

"We think it would be wise to have you start meeting with a SHIELD psychologist via video chat. As you've seen, the Avengers have been quite vocal about their concerns for your mental health, and all of our therapists are well trained to handle unique cases like yours."

Objectively, it's the right choice, Bruce doesn't waste time kidding himself about that one, but he's also getting really, really sick of spending time outside of his fort--yes, he knows that's one more testament to the shrink being the healthy way to go, thanks--and he's already having a hard time with the few minutes every day he spends talking with saved-him-from-the-silence, back-from-the-dead Coulson; he doesn't need some stranger with a master's degree psychoanalyzing how he feels about being locked up by a national security organization because he has a tendency to lose his head and wake up in a pit of his own destruction.

"You're allowed to opt out if you'd prefer," says Coulson. "But we will start making sessions mandatory if we think you've deteriorated to a point where you can't make decisions for yourself."

Bruce smirks at that. "Mandatory? It's a video chat; I close the window and we're done."

Coulson leans back in his chair. "Let's just say SHIELD's never been lacking in the field of coercion techniques and, at the risk of sound cold, I'll remind you that the last time you stayed with us, you were desperate for any kind of human interaction after we isolated you. You're not exactly a man with leverage right now."

Perspective. Right.

The rush of emotions from Coulson's first conversation point has passed, and Bruce is beginning to feel like there's nothing but a pit inside him. If he closed his eyes right now, he could probably sleep for a week.

"I'll do it, and I'll have that that video for you to send to the team ready by tonight."

"Good. We already have a psychologist picked for you. Your first session is set for two p.m. tomorrow," Coulson says.

"Sure."

Coulson breaks into a more muted form of the grin he was wearing when he first appeared on screen. "By the way, do us both a favor and start making a damn grocery list again; we have agents assigned to monitoring you and supplying you with whatever you want, and when you don't want anything, they get paid to sit around eating SHIELD food and bogging down SHIELD wifi."

Bruce forces himself to nod; he knows the tactic of ending conversations on a casual note to neutralize the intensity, but Coulson doesn't need to realize that he knows. He worked around lab rats for long enough to know how to pretend to be one. "I'll try to think of some things to write."

"Good. Send me that video once you've got it made and I'll have it approved and forwarded to the Avengers as quickly as possible."

"Sure," Bruce says.

Coulson cuts the call.

Bruce slides the notebook off his lap and dips his head forward, fingers curling tight in his hair and pulling on the roots to ground himself as he replays the conversation and what he's given up because of it.

It's a good thing he may never get out of here, he tries to tell himself; Clint will kill him.

\-----------

"Hi guys," Bruce says, smiling at the camera above his laptop screen and raising his mug in a wave. He's hoping having tea will make him look relaxed and well adjusted, rather than desperate for a way to stop himself from fidgeting while he tries to formulate sentences. "I'm sure Coulson told you that I chose not to talk with you today, and I figured I should send you a message myself so you didn't think SHIELD was trying to cut off contact between us." He wraps his other hand around the mug and laces his fingertips together on the far side.

He can get through this. He's been through way worse than this; all he needs to do is say a few sentences and end the recording.

"I appreciate everything you guys have done and are doing for me. The care package was"--his thoughts dart to the blanket fort, and he has to drag them back before his resolve crumbles--"very kind. But you didn't listen to anything I said in my last message. I am where I want to be, and I have everything I could possibly need."

He realizes that the smile has fallen from his lips. He curves it back into place and adds, "They've even assigned me a shrink, so every bullet point on your list of concerns for me has been covered, and I'll send a message along through Coulson if I ever need anything else. I understand that you're still not too happy about having me leave the team this early in the game, but I'm not going to change my mind. It's time for you guys to sit back and appreciate your job well done."

Bruce takes a gulp of tea and focuses on the heat burning down his throat. Almost done. "I'm not going to respond to any more contact from any of you; you know that I've made my choice, and I hope that you'll respect it going forward, but in case you don't, you should know that this is going to be the last you hear from me."

One more deep breath. "So thanks for everything, and goodbye."

He stops the recording, emails the file to Coulson, closes the laptop, and throws it against the wall.

It bounces off with a crack and hits the carpet on its back. Bruce stands over it with clenched fists and thinks of all the ways he could finish its destruction. After all, SHIELD will have to give him another one if they expect him to make his appointment tomorrow afternoon.

Uncurling his hands, he picks the notebook up, checks to see that it's still working, and places it on the table holding up part of his fort.

He brews himself a new cup of tea and drinks it down as quickly as he can, the burn blossoming like an echo of his encounter with Bromine. It's a reminder that he's not a good man, but rather a monster who has made the right choice.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the condolences and warm welcome back; I really appreciate both! It's so much fun being back in the mind of this story again; I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed writing it. :)

"Hello, Bruce," says the woman who calls Bruce's chat account at 2:02 the following day. "My name is Dr. Silva Perko, and Agent Coulson thought we'd be a good fit for each other." The words are molded by an Eastern European accent--not Russian, Bruce knows that much--and the doctor herself looks, from what Bruce can see on the screen, immaculately tailored and preened, from her pixie cut to the darkly polished nails she flicks toward the camera in greeting.

"Now, I've reviewed your file," she continues before Bruce can respond, "and I would agree with Agent Coulson's assessment, but why should you listen to me? You don't know me from Adam, so we'll begin with a bit about my background, and how I came to work for SHIELD in the capacity that I do, and from there we can move on to what's happening with you, alright?"

For the thousands of scenarios Bruce has spent the last twenty-four hours working out in his head for this meeting, he did not anticipate this one. He nods, and Silva continues.

"I didn't begin my career with psychology; it's actually what I call my 'retirement career,'" she explains, leaning back in her chair. "I started out in neurology in Slovenia, which is where I'm from, and I worked at a fairly prestigious hospital over there for eight and a half years. I have a friend who worked--and still works, actually--at the same hospital, and every year we would take a few weeks of vacation and travel around a bit. Of course, one year our destination was the East Coast, and I fell in love with New York. As you know, I'm sure, the US doesn't put much stock in medical licenses that aren't issued within its borders, and to be honest, I was more or less done with the hospital setting. I was still in love with the human brain, though.

"So I decided to give clinical psychology a try," She says with a quirk of lip. "I got into a university, got a student visa, and started over. After graduate school, I got a job with a non-profit that helps soldiers returning home. I was there for four years before Agent Coulson dropped by my office with a job offer, which I immediately refused, and he countered with a no-obligation visit to several SHIELD facilities so I could see the organization and get an idea of what a job with them would entail.

"I would hardly say I support everything SHIELD does, or even the majority of it, but there is certainly a need for my training, both psychological and neurological, so I changed my answer.

"And a bit shy of three years later, here we are," Silva says with a gesture to the camera. "So, now that you know a bit about my background and experiences, what do you think?"

"You're smarter than I thought you'd be," Bruce says before he can stop himself.

"And you keep glancing to something off to your right. Should we begin there?"

At her words, Bruce's gaze slides, once again, to the corner of the packing box visible through the door of his fort.

"Listen," he says. "I get that you're intelligent and that you have experience; I don't think Coulson would have paired you with me otherwise. But you've never worked with someone who turned himself into a monster and who murders people and then doesn't even remember it. You'll start with what happened in Stark Tower"--he can't bring himself to mention Clint by name--"and you'll work backward until you get to the part where I'm the son of a housewife and the angry alcoholic physicist who murdered her, and you'll think you've gotten to the bottom of it, that I'm the product of childhood trauma and that the other guy is a self-induced manifestation of that--and you'll probably be right--but it won't matter. You could cure me of the list of defects SHIELD no doubt has on file, but that won't matter either. In the end, there's nothing you can do to take the monster out of me, even if there was some way in hell to undo the gamma radiation; there wouldn't be anything left."

"So if there's nothing I can do to help you," Silva says, "why did you agree to talk to me? It seems like a waste of both our time."

Bruce catches himself hunching inward and straightens his back to counter it, eyes slipping once more to make sure that everything the team sent him is still in place inside the fort. "Coulson's a threatening bastard when he wants to be."

"He is, but I know he didn't force you into these sessions; you agreed on your own."

Bruce catches his shoulders drawing forward again, but doesn't jerk them back this time.

"You don't have to answer right now," Silva tells him after he's been quiet for a minute. "But it's something to think about for yourself; talking to me won't do you any good unless you allow it to."

"And if I don't believe it can?" Bruce's voice comes out less sarcastic and more searching than he had intended. He feels like he's losing himself with every word he says to her.

Silva smiles. "The great thing about belief is that it's a choice; you can change your mind about what you do and don't believe at any time, especially if the evidence you base your belief on changes.

"So," her tone shifts as she speaks. "You know a little bit about me, I know a little bit about you; that seems like a good place to stop for today. We'll let the question of why you chose to meet with me be homework, and I'm going to add to that the question of what you want to get out of our sessions, alright?"

Bruce, who was prepared for an hour or more of being verbally picked apart, startles at the wrap up. "Sure."

"Good. Now how often do you want to meet? Weekly is fairly common in more typical counseling sessions, but I do up to daily as needed, and of course I am always on call, so you can ring me if you ever feel like you need to talk and it can't wait until our next appointment."

A week sounds like an almost infinite unit of measurement, but Bruce isn't even sure why he agreed to this in the first place, so it seems a good enough place to start, and he says so.

"Perfect, I'll schedule you for next Tuesday at two p.m.," Sylva tells him. "Any last questions for today?"

Bruce shakes his head, closing the laptop on her goodbye. He's feeling disconnected, like there's a buffer zone between his brain and the rest of the world. His limbs move where he wants them to go, but he gets the impression that they're just lending him control. Not that he minds as long as they let him scramble back into the blanket fort.

He's inside it for all of fifteen minutes when there's a knock at the door. Bruce's heart rate spikes in a pavlovian response, his limbs already propelling his body toward the front door while his brain tries to figure out what is going on. His left hand pulls the door open before he can come up with an answer.

Agent Phil Coulson stands in the hallway outside his apartment, the military-looking gun in his hands already aimed for Bruce's chest.

Bruce raises his hands accordingly.

"Concerns have been raised that you're not eating correctly," Coulson says conversationally. "And you haven't bothered ordering anything, so I had the agents in charge of monitoring you round up a few things." He gestures with the muzzle of his gun to the pile of grocery bags balanced on top of a cardboard box.

A cardboard box with sharpie sketches of New York, done in Steve's style, covering the sides Bruce can see and broken in the places where they ripped the tape up to inspect the contents.

Bruce's pulse pounds behind his eyes. It feels like he can't breathe deeply enough to keep himself together.

"You couldn't have just called?" he asks, trying for anything other than the hoarse whisper that leaves his lips.

"Concerns have also been raised that you're not getting adequate social interaction. You're not planning to transform are you?"

"It wasn't high on my to-do list for today," Bruce says.

"Good." Coulson lowers the gun. "Are you going to invite me in? There's vegetable korma, rice, and naan in one of the bags from the closest Indian place; I figured we could try it and you could tell me how authentic it isn't."

All Bruce wants to do is grab the box and slam the door behind him; the muscles in his arms ache as he forces them to fall to his sides rather than reach forward and pick up the package. But the gun in Coulson's hands is one more reminder that he is never as alone as he feels in this place, and that the people controlling his life are not the kind he should be saying 'no' to very often. He needs to plan for the future, now that he's told the Avengers he's not going to contact them anymore, and keeping his quality of life from dropping too drastically because he offended SHIELD should be one of his main goals.

Bruce's heartbeat begins echoing in his ears at the thought of spending the rest of his life here, but he shoves the thought away, buries it down deep in the pit of his stomach as he forces a smile and raises his hand toward the open door in invitation.

Coulson holsters his gun, returns the smile, and picks up the grocery bags, leaving Bruce with the torture of bringing in the decorated box with his name printed on top in the most recognizable handwriting he knows, only to have to leave it next to his fort--and that's a whole other problem, isn't it?

Bruce stares at the entire collection of his apartment furniture, lashed together with blankets, and wonders if Coulson would mind sitting on the floor.

Coulson, for his part, is already opening cupboards and drawers in the kitchen. Bruce follows him in, watching as the agent puts away groceries and pulls out plates and forks.

"Would you like some tea?" Bruce offers. It's about the only foodstuff left in his kitchen.

Coulson begins unpacking the take out and sets a large Styrofoam container down next to Bruce's elbow. "I got chai," he explains, giving the container a pat. "Want to pour it into mugs while I dish up the food?"

Bruce nods, watching Coulson out of the corner of his eye while he works. The agent moves well for someone who was stabbed in the heart, but his range of motion is limited, and Bruce catches the way his eyes narrow when he moves certain muscles. Probably still in physical therapy, Bruce guesses, which isn't bad at all for a dead man.

"Sorry about the mess," Bruce says as he picks the mugs up and gestures toward the fort before leading the way back into the living room.

Coulson eases his way to the floor on the far side of the room, back propped up against the wall. "All I need is the remote and I can overlook anything."

Handing him one of the mugs, Bruce fishes the remote out from under a blanket anchored between the tv and the coffee table and passes it to Coulson as well.

The agent turns on 19 Kids and Counting and digs into his food.

Bruce joins him, wrapping his fingers around his mug and inhaling the scent of chai. It used to be a smell that brought back memories of late nights in Calcutta when he managed to save the life or limb of someone who had repaid him with a few hundred rupees and a good meal, but now it just connects him to Indian buffets where Tony would buy out the restaurant for the evening because, by the time Thor and Steve were done, there was never much left over.

He's being idiotic, his mind snaps as he sets down the mug and picks up his plate; he can count the number of weeks he spent with the Avengers on one hand. The connection he feels with them, and whatever connection they feel in turn, is based on the glorified and unsustainable foundation of having saved a city together a few times, and Bruce wasn't even conscious for it.

He can let it go. He will. All he needs is time.


	19. Chapter 19

Bruce wills himself to send the new box with Coulson as he leaves. He’s already sworn to the Avengers and to himself that he won’t respond to them again, and whatever’s inside the package can only be an attempt to dissuade him from that—one he’s far too vulnerable to consider exposing himself to. But Coulson switches off the tv, puts his dishes in the dishwasher, stows the leftover food in the vacant expanse of the fridge, and closes the front door behind himself before Bruce has strung together the words to prompt him.  
  
Forcing himself to walk away from the box and into the kitchen is one of the hardest things Bruce has ever done. He begins to wonder if Tony configured some way to give the package its own gravitational pull, before realizing how crazy that sounds. He rinses off his dishes and lines them up next to Coulson’s in the washer. He turns the kettle on and slouches against the countertop beside it. The box sits ominously in the living room, standing guard at the entrance of his blanket fort, and Bruce realizes, mind swimming with the logistics of it, that he’s going to have to live in the kitchen now. Clear out one of the lower cupboards, maybe, and set it up as his new fort, because if he steps foot in the living room again he will open that box, and maybe he deserves the pain that it will bring as some beginning atonement for his sins, but Bruce is too damn much of a coward to face that future with anything less than dug in heels and tightly shut eyes.  
  
The kettle begins to hiss, pulling Bruce from his thoughts and into the routine of making tea. The chai Coulson brought was more caffeine than Bruce has had in a long time, and he pulls down a tin of chamomile to try to offset the jitters starting in his hands and the back of his brain. He makes a full pot—more for the time it will take to consume than because he wants it—and settles himself cross-legged on the counter to enjoy it.  
  
If time dragged before in the comfort of his blankets and idols, it all but stops in the kitchen. Bruce makes himself wait the eternity it takes for his tea to grow cold in the pot before he gets to start on rearranging the kitchen into his second home. He empties the cupboard next to the dishwasher and removes the shelves, humming tunelessly to himself in an attempt to block out the cynical voice in his mind that mocks how far he has fallen.  
  
If there’s one thing that could be said for his time in captivity, it’s that Bruce has been broken of more of his pride than he could have ever thought possible.

He packs the displaced dishes and appliances into other corners of the tight kitchen and lines the empty cupboard with tea towels and dishrags, before climbing inside. The space is barely longer lengthwise than the measurement of Bruce's torso from shoulder to hip. He has to fold himself into the fetal position, knees drawn up almost to the point of meeting his bowed head, to fit.  
  
Bruce is seven years old, hiding in the wooden laundry hamper at the top of the stairs, the neck of his tee shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth to muffle the breaths he measures out carefully, matched up with the banging and screaming coming from his father downstairs. It was only a matter of time before his father noticed the absence of the lamp on his desk, and an even shorter matter of time before he found the glass shards Bruce had tried to bury beneath the carrot peelings in the kitchen garbage can.

His father is going to kill him, Bruce is convinced of that much, and he knows he probably deserves it, too; he knew better than to go into his father’s office in the first place, much better than to climb up on his desk to reach the roll of tape on the upper shelf when the rest of the house had run out half way through Bruce's art project.  
  
He pulls his arms inside of his shirt so that he can suck the blood from the cuts in his hands that haven’t scabbed over yet. He knows he’s making a mess, half of the clothes around him in the hamper are smudged and stained with his blood, but it was the best he could do once his higher reasoning abandoned him with the crash of the lamp.

Something’s wrong.  
  
More wrong, anyway. Bruce’s head is starting to fill with fluff. His eyes keep shutting without his permission, and he knows in his gut that he has to fix that. He has to be awake when his father finds him. He’s woken up to the man’s fists before, and he will not let himself go through that here where he won’t be able to get away.

He tries to keep his breathing quiet as he struggles with the terror sweeping through his foggy mind, tries biting down on his cuts to invoke enough pain to wake himself up a bit. It’s only a matter of seconds before Bruce’s limbs go slack against his will and his muscles have floated off somewhere far away.  
  
*  
  
Bruce’s head aches and the light is searing before he even gets his eyes open. He’s so damn tired of erratic sleep/wake cycles and not remembering when he dropped off that—

The memory—the flashback—pours into his mind. Bruce snaps his eyes open, scrambling to pull his limbs tighter to his body in defense against whatever he missed in the time he’s been out.  
  
Phil Coulson is sitting on the floor in between Bruce and the entrance of the kitchen, back propped against the fridge and the contents of a file spread out around him. A pistol rests conspicuously on his knee.  
  
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Coulson asks, eyes barely sliding toward Bruce before returning to the packet of papers in his hands.  
  
“You knocked me out,” Bruce guesses, trying to remember if he made it out of the cupboard on his own, or if Coulson must have dragged him out after he was under.  
  
“Your pulse hit 190 and set our automatic security measures into motion. While it’s always nice to be sure that they’re working and properly calibrated, I’d like some sort of assurance that your time here is helping you keep control, rather than hindering it. It was hard enough getting things here set up for you; I’m not looking forward to finding an alternative if I don’t have to.”  
  
 _An alternative_. Bruce can’t help the shiver that lights his spine at the words. Sometimes he forgets—too caught up in his own mind—that this apartment with its furnishings and room service is SHIELD being merciful toward him. He has much, much farther to fall before discovering what SHIELD would consider to be rock bottom.  
  
“I brought up a memory I shouldn’t have,” Bruce tries to explain, unlocking his limbs and forcing them to stretch out so he doesn’t look quite so haunted. “I wasn’t thinking; I’ll be more careful in the future.”  
  
“How can SHIELD help you with that?”  
  
“Some time to prove that I can keep things under control would be good.”  
  
Coulson sets down the packet of papers in his hands and meets Bruce’s gaze. “No one at SHIELD is rooting for you to fail, Bruce. We want things here to work out just as much as you do, but we can’t help you with that if you won’t tell us how to.”  
  
“I’ve got a shrink and just about everything I ask for and probably an entire department or so dedicated to making sure I’m doing alright; what more could I possibly want?”

Bruce can guarantee Coulson heard the bitterness he didn’t mean to slip into the words, but the agent doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he stands and walks out of the room, holstering his gun on the way.  
  
He’s back in a matter of seconds, the box Bruce has been avoiding since he carried it inside in his hands. Coulson sets it down on the floor between them.  
  
“Doesn’t already knowing what’s inside ruin the suspense of watching me open that?” Bruce asks, forcing his tone to be flippant.  
  
Coulson doesn’t respond. Instead, he digs back into the papers around him.  
  
This is a test, Bruce is sure of it, but he has no idea what he needs to do in order to pass. He can come up with as many reasons that he should ignore the box and wait Coulson out as he can to open it and prove that nothing in there can affect him.  
  
How long they sit there, Bruce couldn’t say, but it’s long enough that he jolts when Coulson breaks the silence. “The fact that you haven't opened that yet tells me it's either something you don't care about, or something you care about too much," the agent says, nodding toward the box between them as he arranges his papers back in their folder. "I could take it with me. We could set up a complete no-contact policy, if you think that would help you acclimate faster.”  
  
Bruce mulls it over. “What would you do in my position?”  
  
“I’ve never been in your shoes, so I can’t give a good guess one way or the other. But I have made calls in the field that have gotten Clint and Natasha, and plenty of others under my authority, injured or otherwise compromised. I haven’t walked away from the job yet.”  
  
Bruce nods.  
  
“If it helps, the Avengers are doing fine. They’re royal pains in my ass, but they’re working well together. You may not have meant it to, but your situation solidified them as a unit better than any teambuilding exercise I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Other than your alleged death, I would imagine.”  
  
Coulson’s lips curve into a smirk as he gets to his feet. “Better than any exercise that didn’t involve deceit, let’s say. Last chance to send the box with me today.”  
  
“No,” Bruce says. The word doesn’t feel like he created it. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”  
  
He can feel Coulson’s eyes on him again, the angle adding the sensation of being hunted.  
  
“Keep a hold of yourself, Bruce.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bruce nods, pushing himself upright against the cupboard behind him. He steps over the package as he trails Coulson’s steps to the front door. Coulson shuts it behind himself with a wave, and Bruce walks back into his living room to realize the gift that the agent has given him: out of sight isn’t quite out of mind, but he can avoid the kitchen much more easily than the living room.  
  
Bruce crawls inside his fort and closes his eyes. He brings up memories of his years on the run, always alone, always watching his own back, always sure capture was inevitable and imminent. This? Here? This is nothing. He can—he _will_ —be better. He owes it to SHIELD and his team and the man he used to be before all of this. All of that effort and concern on his behalf will not go to waste any more than it already has.  
  
With shaking hands, Bruce pulls down the taped up pictures Steve sketched, packs them back in their box along with the rest of the gifts the team last sent him, Clint’s letter going in on top.  
  
He pulls the letter back out and lets himself hold onto it for a second, before ripping it into as many pieces as he can and raining them down on the contents of the box. He drags it out of the fort, out into the hallway outside his front door, then grabs the box in the kitchen and stacks it on top.  
  
Bruce locks the door behind him, one more infinitesimal barrier between him and his own weakness. Then he squares his shoulders and returns to the living room, doesn’t let himself stop moving until every blanket in his collection is back in its rightful place, every piece of furniture returned to its intended use.  
  
 _‘Better,’_ his mind decides. _‘Better,’_ it repeats, the word transitioning from an assessment to an objective. Six letters. Even Bruce can accomplish six letters with enough motivation.  
  
His veins itch, a sign that the caffeine from the tea is still in his system, Bruce assumes. He burns off the sensation setting the kitchen cupboard he cleared out back to its original state, then fishes out the cleaning supplies under his sink and works his way from room to room. The process drives him until, finally, the fire in his veins has become deadweight, pulling him away from the apartment, from SHIELD, from everything.  
  
For the first time in a long while, Bruce climbs into his bed and sleep swallows him without protest.


	20. Chapter 20

Bruce’s second session with Dr. Perko doesn’t go badly, but it doesn’t go all that well, either. She congratulates him on dismantling his fort and choosing to release himself from contact with the Avengers. She asks him if he’s come up with reasons yet why he agreed to meet with her and what he wants to get out of their time together. Bruce still doesn’t know. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s making his brain worse, bringing up events and people he’s been trying hard not to think about.

He smiles politely and says whatever he thinks she might want to hear until their hour together is up. Then he shuts his laptop and climbs back into bed.

He’s started to become a sleep expert since the incident in the kitchen. Another week and he’ll be good enough to teach classes.

It’s noise that wakes him up. Not the melody that tells him he’s getting a video call, but the harsh staccato of a voice giving orders, followed by a hand on his shoulder.

Bruce comes up flailing, shoving the hand away and dragging his body toward the corner where the bed meets the wall.

His vision clears and he’s met with the sight of Phil Coulson. The agent shows no sign of the laid back paper-pusher he played the last time Bruce woke up to find him in his apartment; Coulson is holding a StarkTab and talking into the comm unit in his ear.

“...need to determine if Tony was wearing the suit when the power went down and get a lock on Widow. Everyone else stays out of Manhattan until we know what we’re dealing with.” Coulson says, swiping at the tablet in his hand, before his tone changes. “Time to rise and shine, Bruce, we need you.”

He gives a few more commands in the time it takes Bruce to piece together what is happening. Whatever passes across his face, Coulson must judge him coherent enough. The agent pulls a spare comm from his pocket and holds it out.

“Banner is live,” Coulson says, finger pressed to his ear as Bruce fumbles to fit the device into place.

The sounds of terror and panic radiate from the unit. A long string of swear words linked together by Clint's creativity roll over top of them.

“Hawkeye, cut the chatter unless you have ideas to suggest,” Steve orders, his voice every bit Captain America. “Banner, you with us?”

“Here,” Bruce croaks. He clears his throat. “I’m here. What’s going on?”

“Things are going to shit, that’s what’s going on. Get your ass over here before whatever the hell this is spreads, you hear me?” Clint barks.

“Hawkeye, silence, now,” Cap commands as Coulson holds up the StarkTab for Clint to see. The video feeds that the tablet keeps switching between are all long-distance shots of chaos and fright. “Bruce, there’s something causing a blackout across Manhattan, and it’s been effecting everything that so much as flies over; three commercial flights and I don’t know how many news helicopters and other aircraft went down before air traffic control realized what was going on and started rerouting them. We can't get in contact with JARVIS or anything else at the tower, and Thor can’t control lightning anywhere close to the perimeter of the island. Thor, Hawkeye, and I were in Brooklyn when they lost power, but Iron Man and Widow, plus Jane and Pepper and whoever else, were over there, and we haven’t heard anything from them since everything went down. Thor’s done some flyovers, and he says there’s a mob of something attacking the tower and everything near it, but that’s all we’ve got. We could really use some extra manpower right about now." 

Bruce stares at the screen, trying to sort out when his dreams became so vivid.

“Bruce,” Coulson prompts. “It’ll take us just under an hour to get out there and I should have been wheels up twenty minutes ago. You need to decide what you want to do.”

“I don't—” Bruce starts, trying to pull his thoughts into some sort of order.

Clint’s voice cuts in through the comm. “Fury’s letting you out for the good of New York. Fucking hurry up before he changes his mind.”

Everything in Bruce’s mind screams ‘no,’ while every emotion he has howls, ‘yes.’ Every wise decision he’s made, every sound choice in the past weeks, can be undermined by one breathed syllable.

Bruce grabs the shoulder of Coulson’s suit, digs his nails into the expensive cloth and stares at the man with a look that even he knows must be pure mania, while he pulls the comm from his ear with his free hand. “You have to bring me back,” he says. “Swear to me that, when this is over, you won’t let me go free. That’s the only way I’ll agree to this.”

“You know that will be just about impossible now that the team will be expecting it.”

“You’re SHIELD; isn’t that your thing?”

“I’m not going to promise you something I can’t guarantee, but I will do everything in my power to make sure none of us regret this.”

Bruce has never in his life made a good decision under pressure, so he’s not at all surprised to find himself nodding. “Okay.”

“Banner’s in. We’ll be en route in five.”

Bruce replaces his device in time to hear Clint whoop and Steve say, “Glad to hear it.”

He knows, in his gut and in his bones, that this might just be the decision that tops using himself as a guinea pig on the list of worst choices of his life.

There isn’t time to dwell on that, though. Coulson is already handing him a duffel bag—high-protein vegetarian food options and a change of clothes that should be somewhat Hulk-resistant, he explains—and leading the way out of the apartment.

It’s immediately clear that the facility didn’t have time to prepare for this turn of events. The building is teeming with people, to the point that Coulson has to kick four of them out of the elevator and override the system so it doesn’t keep stopping on their way up to the roof. A quinjet is waiting for them when they get there, a pilot Bruce doesn’t recognize already in place.

“Where are we?” Bruce asks as he follows Coulson inside.

“DC.”

“Is that really the best place to stick someone like me?”

“It’s one of the last places Barton and Romanoff would have thought to check,” Coulson explains. He asks for an update from the team, and Bruce settles in for the ride.

*

The engines haven’t even shut off before Clint flings open the door and storms inside. He grabs Bruce by the front of his shirt and drags him to his feet.

This close, Bruce can see fear tucked away behind the rage on Clint’s face.

“Where the _fuck_ do you get off, Banner?” Clint hisses. “When the fuck did SHIELD become more trustworthy than your own team?”

“Barton,” Coulson says, at the same time Steve barks, “Hawkeye, focus!”

“Thank you for joining us, Bruce,” Steve adds, “You’re irreplaceable.”

Clint still has a grip on Bruce’s shirt, but the strength in it is gone and Bruce slips past him without trouble. Steve leads the way out of the jet and onto the rooftop that has apparently become Avengers Headquarters 2.0 until they can get things sorted out. It's eerily quiet this far up in the air; nothing close to the screams Bruce had heard through the comm earlier. He's grateful for that.

Thor is standing in the middle of the concrete, cape billowing behind him like some kind of clichéd cartoon. At the sight of Bruce, he raises Mjolnir in greeting. “Hail, my friend. It is both a relief and a privilege to see you once again. You are well?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce tells him. “Do we have a game plan?”

Steve’s the one to answer. “Thor says there are giant creatures swarming the island, especially the area around Stark Tower. Our first priority is to clear out all civilians. The Hulk should be a good distraction while Clint and I get people out. If the three of us are able to handle things for a bit, that will free Thor up to find Black Widow and Iron Man—hopefully he’ll know how to reverse this. We won’t be able to communicate once we split up, so be careful and watch your backs. If things start to look bad, get out and regroup, understood?”

The world around them is so much bigger and brighter and louder than Bruce’s space in SHIELD, but he knows better than to let himself appreciate it. The pain of giving it up again would be too great and the temptation to change what has to happen too consuming. He draws himself up to his full height and locks the human Bruce Banner—with all his human thoughts and wants and needs—away in the back of his mind. It’s not as though the others need him here anyway; they sent for the monster, not the man.

The blocks he’s set up in his head won’t last too long—he knows that all too well—but they should hold until this is over and he’s back safe with SHIELD.

For an instant Bruce allows himself to wonder where they’ll hide him now that the apartment in DC is compromised, but he locks out the speculation before too long. One thing at a time.

“Thor, if you could drop me as close as you can, that would be good. Once the other guy’s out he’ll head toward wherever the most action is, and that’s as likely to be civilians as it is to be whatever’s behind this if we’re not careful.”

“Of course. I am eager to fight by your side once more,” Thor says, spinning Mjolnir in anticipation of the trip. He grabs Bruce around the waist, and Bruce locks his fingers into place on Thor’s armor. Dignity is a price he’s more than willing to pay for not falling and Hulking out half way there.

And that’s when Bruce realizes that Clint’s screwed. “Arrows,” he says, dropping his grip and pulling away from Thor. “Your quiver is StarkTech; it’s not going to work once you’re over there.”

“We’ve got a backup in the Quinjet,” Coulson says before Clint can. “All manual, no tech. He’ll be fine.”

“Although I love that you thought about that,” Clint adds.

That’s one of them squared, at least. Thor will be down his lightning capabilities, but even without them he’s got a mean swing and the whole flight angle, and Cap, thankfully, will only be missing his ability to give orders over long distances. He adds to that Widow, who shouldn’t be having any more problems with the blackout than she would without it, and Tony, who’s basically a civilian without the suit, except worse, because most civilians can figure out that they’re supposed to run away from whatever is going on. Tony’s never been big on keeping himself out of harm’s way, from what Bruce has seen.

“You going to be okay, Bruce?” Cap asks.

Bruce realizes everyone else on the rooftop is waiting on him. His ears burn a bit from the attention. “I’ll be fine as long as the other guy stays in line.”

Thor steps back into his personal space and once again locks his arm in place. Bruce grabs back on, and with a nod from Steve they’re airborne, the others shrinking from view in a matter of milliseconds.

“When this is over we will be having words,” Thor shouts in his ear over the rush of the wind. “But for now it is enough for me to say that your absence has weighed heavily on all of us. Do not think SHIELD will take you from among Earth’s champions again without a fight.”

“It wasn’t SHIELD.” Just the thought of having this conversation is exhausting. Bruce is almost glad to be on his way to a fight just to avoid getting too much into it. “I chose to go back.”

“But you were coerced, surely. You cannot believe that SHIELD would offer you better protection than we.”

The sight of Stark Tower growing rapidly larger as they approach comes as a blessed relief, even if it does appear that someone arranged a King Kong Reenactment Day without mentioning it to the team. Massive creatures with mottled fur swarm the tower and surrounding streets and buildings for blocks in every direction. Hundreds, at least. It’s a mystery where they’ve been hiding up until now.

“Where should you like to be placed?” Thor asks, content for now, apparently, to let their conversation drop for the sake of the greater good.

“Anywhere it looks like there are a lot of those and no humans.”

Thor changes their trajectory, aiming them toward the tower’s north-east corner. “May the Hulk fight well for you,” he says as they touch down. “I will return with our captain and Hawkeye with all speed. Until then, be safe.”

“You, too,” Bruce shouts at Thor’s already retreating form. He doesn’t have much time to watch it before the creatures start closing in. Up close, they look a bit like bears crossed with monkeys. They’re big enough to give the Hulk a run for his money, and the reach of their arms is longer than it looks. Bruce has to dart backward to avoid a swipe from one. The Hulk takes over from there.


	21. Chapter 21

Bruce comes to in absolute darkness. There’s emotional residue still gummy in his mind from the other guy, a blend of caution and concern. It’s about as far from the usual dregs the Hulk leaves behind as it can be, and it makes Bruce even more nervous than usual post-transformation.

He’s so internally-focused that it takes him a minute to notice that he’s not alone. The staccato of someone breathing far, far too quickly is unmistakable in the otherwise silent room.

“Hello?” Bruce whispers in the darkness.

“Bruce?” The voice is feminine and familiar, but Bruce can’t quite place it.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?” The words wobble, but they’re enough that Bruce is able to pick Jane out through them.

“I think so. I don’t usually remember much from the other guy’s experiences. What did I miss?”

He sits up and starts to feel around. The floor under him is carpeted—push and expensive—and he can stretch his arms out in any direction without hitting anything. Jane, judging by the sound of her breath, is ten feet or so off to his right.

“The power went out, and then those things started attacking. I tried to find Tony and Natasha, but I couldn’t get to either of them, and then the creatures got inside the tower. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but they’ve been ripping things apart floor by floor for the past hour, maybe. Sometimes you can hear screaming. I’ve been hiding since that started, and then I heard something rip the door open. I was sure it was those things, and kind of freaked out, but it was the Hulk, which didn’t exactly make the freaking out better. He tried to grab me and I kind of lost it and I think that made him back off a little. Then he flopped down on the floor, I guess, and now you’re here.”

“That’s...unexpected,” Bruce says, processing. “How are you doing?”

The laugh that bubbles up from Jane’s side of the room is anything but amused. “Not so good. I thought I’d totally be fine living here, but I guess whenever I pictured New York being attacked by something, I was always back behind you guys and not so much in harm’s way.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I think I did a lot better in New Mexico.”

Bruce checks himself over, making sure his pants survived the switch to the Hulk and back, before sliding toward the sound of Jane’s voice. “Hey,” he says, when he’s pretty sure he’s within arm’s length of her. “It’s okay; you’re allowed to not be prepared to deal with this sort of situation. None of us are, with the probable exception of Clint and Natasha—we just have more experience rolling with the punches. Do you happen to know where we are in the tower?”

“Forty-second floor, one of the wings near the center of the tower that Stark hasn’t turned into anything yet. I figured if they were looking for something specific, they probably wouldn’t waste time combing through here. Bruce, no offense, but how did you get out?”

“It turns out they’ll call anyone in if the situation gets bad enough, and right now I’m supposed to be causing a distraction. We should try to get you to Thor, or at least to Clint or Steve—they’re in charge of evacuating the area. You up to move?”

Jane shifts in the darkness, drawing in a deep breath. “Yeah,” she says, voice stabilizing. “Where do we go?”

“I don’t know the layout of this floor at all; if you could get us to a window or something so I could get my bearings, that would be helpful.”

“Got it.” A hand lands on Bruce’s upper chest and fumbles its way down to catch one of his own. Jane pulls him to his feet and leads haltingly. “You’re going to warn me before you change again, right?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. My brain is programed to respond to only one crisis at a time, and if you try to add to that I’ll be screwed.”

There’s a faint thud, and then Bruce walks into Jane’s side before backing up and breathing an apology. He counts his breaths as she changes their direction, and one misplaced step bounces him off the wall she must have found first.

“Here we go,” she whispers, pulling open a door and guiding him through.

The floor out here is hard—wood or tile, maybe—and they walk in a slow, straight line for long minutes, before taking a left turn. Bruce can see the faintest of grays ahead to their right. Jane picks up their pace, confident enough to drop the hand she had been trailing against the wall, and the fact that Bruce can see the gesture is unreasonably exciting. They follow the light to the crack between a door and its threshold.

“It’s going to be bright,” Jane warns as she opens the door and daylight floods the hallway.

Bruce drops her hand and screws up his eyes against the intrusion, waiting for them to adjust before walking to the wall of windows on the far side of the room. They offer a panorama of the surrounding skyscrapers and the creatures that are, apparently, still intent on conquering them. There are fewer of the animals now, or at least, fewer on this side of the tower, and Bruce hopes the Hulk had a hand in that.

“What are we looking for?” Jane asks as she joins him.

“I was kind of hoping we’d spot Thor doing a fly by, but at least we can get a taste of how things are going.”

“Do you guys have any idea what those things are looking for? I mean, they’re kind of all over the place, but only for a block or so; after that they taper off for the most part.” Jane points down toward one of the streets that lines up with their view. “See?”

Bruce does see. For someone who sounded to be working her way through a panic attack less than fifteen minutes ago, Jane has done a phenomenal job of pulling herself together, or at least of compartmentalizing.

“Thor said they seemed to be mainly sticking close to the tower earlier when he flew over," Bruce notes, "and it doesn’t look like that’s changed much.”

“So what does Stark Tower have that they would need to kill power for who knows how far out just to get to?”

“It’s all of Manhattan,” Bruce supplies. “The whole island is blacked out.”

“So maybe they’re not searching so much as invading. Do you think it’s some kind of power play? Like, they’re proving they can shut down Avengers’ Headquarters or something?”

Bruce shakes his head. “They look like minions, and if it was a power play, whoever’s in charge would be front and center bragging about it.”

From far below them comes the sound of a faint crash, and the glass shivers. Bruce holds his breath and glances sideways to find Jane doing the same, her eyes shut tight. When they open again, though, Bruce can see fire in them.

“What does the tower have that no one else does?” she demands. “JARVIS has got to be backed up on a hundred different servers across the globe, right? Along with basically every blueprint Tony’s ever bothered to jot down. And if they were trying to capture you guys, this would be one of the stupidest ways to do it ever, so that’s out, too, same with trying to take down Stark Industries. What else is there?”

And Bruce remembers. The third night he’d spent in the tower, the first one where Tony had convinced him to come down to the lab so he could show off for a biological audience, Tony held a sloshing tumbler of scotch in one hand while the other had waved manically, pulling up schematic after schematic, interspersed with progress photos and test results. And the peak of the night, the moment when one of Tony’s bots had rolled to his side and snatched away his drink to keep it from soaking the touchscreen tabletop that Tony kept swinging it over--only to drop and shatter the glass halfway back to the bar—was the arc reactor powering the tower.

Bruce sucks in several deep breaths through clenched teeth and tries to clear the dread that's swinging jackhammers against his composure, because this? Bruce piecing it together after maybe twenty minutes of being awake? Means Tony solved the puzzle in less than five and he’s already doing his damnedest, without his AI or his tech, to protect his invention.

“Bruce?” Jane’s voice is small again. “You’re kind of freaking me out here.”

“We have to go find Tony.” No. Wrong. “I have to go find Tony,” he corrects. “Go back to where you were; I think they’re looking for the arc reactor that’s powering the tower, which means they shouldn’t bother coming up to these floors. If I see Thor or one of the others, I’ll send them to come find you.”

Jane doesn’t back away. “I’m not so good at hiding and waiting for things to come find me. Plus, you know, the whole “don’t split up, what the hell are you thinking?!” logic from watching horror movies is kind of kicking in. Do you mind?”

Bruce should probably be saying something about how he does mind, how movies also teach you to avoid sticking with the guy who turns out to be the serial killer later in the storyline, but they let him out to be some crude approximation of a hero, and he might as well keep trying for that. His emotions are still locked up tight; as long as nothing too horrifyingly stupid happens in the next few hours—and, yes, Bruce knows just how big of a uncertainty that is—Jane should be about as safe with him as she would be alone with those creatures prowling around. “I could use the company,” he says.

Jane smiles at that, reaching for his hand again. “Tony’s lab first? I was thinking about it; I don’t even know if there’s a way in without power. Normal people have back up plans for that, but not the guy with the electromagnet in his…” her voice fades along with the color in her face, and Bruce can’t believe he didn’t make the connection before now.

“Shit.” Jane covers her mouth with her free hand. “Shit, shit, shit. I mean, if they’re going after the arc reactor powering the building, they might as well take out the main source of future competition while they’re at it. Do you know…? I’ve heard the basic story of what happened to him, but I’m not a cardiologist or anything, and it’s not like he talks about it. Not to me, anyway.”

“I probably know as much as you,” Bruce says, trying to keep his tone even as he reinforces the blocks in his mind that are threatening to crumble. “Maybe things have changed since he first had to implant the reactor, but we should probably try to find him sooner rather than later.”

Jane tightens her grip on his hand and leads the way back into the darkness. Despite the lack of sight, she picks her stride with confidence, fingers whispering against the wall to keep them on track.

Even with the pace Jane sets, it feels like an eternity before they find the lab, ears straining in the blackness for any sign of hope or danger. They’ve heard the distant sounds of destruction a few times on their way down, but it’s been more or less quiet for two floors at least. Bruce knocks Tony’s name in Morse code against the glass that separates them from the room, while Jane tries to wrench the door open.

“I’m surprised this is still intact,” Bruce says, “I would have expected Thor to have made it here by now and hammered his way in; he was in charge of finding people.”

“Maybe he found Tony somewhere else.” Jane’s attack on the door handle doesn’t slow. “Or he could have got distracted; that doesn't”—her response breaks off as the whisper of a crash reverberates through the thick glass. “Tony?”

It’s followed a few seconds later by another bang, harder, trembling the wall under Bruce’s fingertips.

Bruce knows it’s not exactly smart to be making too much noise right now, but that doesn’t stop him from shouting Tony’s name at the top of his lungs.

“Bruce?” Natasha’s voice is barely distinguishable through the glass.

“And Jane,” Bruce responds, making his voice boom as best he can. “Is Tony with you?”

“Yes, but he was unconscious when I found him; I had to drop in through the ventilation ducts because the door’s locked and Stark wasn’t responding. He’s breathing, but his pulse is thready; whatever took out the electricity turned off the arc reactor, too.”

“Shit,” Jane breathes again as Bruce shouts, “It’s island-wide. Can you guys hang in there for a few minutes? We need to go find Thor so he can get you out and get Tony to a hospital with power.”

Jane’s hand finds his arm. “You could do it.”

Bruce edges away from the touch without allowing the idea to permeate his mind. “Natasha?”

“Let me check him again.”

It’s quiet on her side of the glass for a bit, before her voice comes back. “If he’s getting worse, he’s doing it slowly. You’ve probably got some time.”

“I could go find Thor,” Jane says, louder now. “Bruce could break the wall down in the meantime.”

Natasha only hesitates for the fraction of a second before saying, “It’s your call, Bruce,” but the pause feels eternal coming from the assassin.

It’s not a choice if there’s only one viable option, but Bruce appreciates that; living back under SHIELD's control means his decision-making skills are rusty. “The Hulk is supposed to be outside causing a distraction. We’ll go find Thor; Jane can bring him here and I’ll get back to work.”

Jane huffs, but doesn’t counter.

“If you can’t find him within half an hour, come back and we’ll reassess,” Natasha commands.

Bruce agrees and wishes her luck, hand fumbling in the dark for Jane’s. “Mind leading the way? I think you’ve got the better sense of direction.”

To her credit, Jane sets them on their way before offering the critique Bruce can practically feel radiating off of her. “The Hulk changed back, you know, when he saw I was scared. It makes sense why you’re so careful—I can’t even begin to guess what I’d do in your shoes—but it’s not like you know him; you’ve never even seen him face to face. He could have helped back there.”

“I appreciate your optimism, but I can’t risk sharing it, and you’ve seen why. Thor will get Tony out of there; it will be fine.”

If Jane has a response to that, she bites her tongue. The two of them make it down a dozen more stories before she asks quietly, “What happens to you after this is over?”

“I don’t know for sure; I guess we’ll see.” It’s close enough to the truth that Bruce doesn’t feel bad about it.

“This should be it,” Jane says as they conquer another flight of stairs. “If I counted right, this should be the ground floor.”

The sounds of conflict have been getting louder the farther down they go, and Bruce has a tight feeling in his stomach that they’re not going slip neatly out of the building. He reaches for the door handle, pulling Jane behind him. “Let me go out first. If things look okay, follow me, but don’t get too close, just in case. If I change, get back to Tony and Natasha as quickly as you can; you’ll be safer back up there. The others will check the lab eventually; you’ll just have to wait it out. Okay?”

“Got it.” Jane squeezes his hand before dropping it, and Bruce draws a breath before letting himself out of the stairwell.

It’s blinding in every sense of the word; light and sound and motion with no barrier, and Bruce knows he needs to get his bearings, needs to figure out what the hell he’s looking at, but the stairwell door opened directly across from the tower’s south side, where the afternoon sunlight is bouncing off the surrounding skyscrapers and streaming in through the windows that reach up to the high ceiling way too far overhead. The sensation of being an insect under a spyglass is unavoidable, and the blurry, gargantuan creatures destroying the décor aren’t helping. He tries to make himself focus on the goal, on finding Thor, or, barring that, any member of the team, shoving back against the panic that being exposed sets off inside him. It works until, out of the corner of his eye, Bruce catches sight of Jane sliding out into the open behind him, and of the creature headed straight for her.

Bruce explodes.


	22. Chapter 22

"I'm not saying that I'm not going to stay in medical, I'm just saying that you _need_ me to not stay in medical…Because either Jarvis or I need to get eyes on this, and Jarvis is obviously not an option right now…You try resting quietly when a menagerie of apes on steroids has tried to steal your life's work, see how well that"—the words cut off in a coughing fit, wet and chest-rattling. When the voice picks up again, it's hoarse and quiet. "Yeah, yeah; good luck doing anything in the dark without me."

Bruce opens his eyes to find an expanse of linoleum under his cheek, his line of sight cut off by the wheels and metal frame of a hospital bed. His attempt to sit up is met with resistance, and he realizes Clint's languid form is propped up against him, his spine is lined up against the curve of Bruce's side. Clint's uniform is rough against his skin, and Bruce glances down in a panic before discovering that the pants Coulson gave him when they started this adventure have, fortunately, remained somewhat intact.

"You're more padded when you're green," Clint says, eyes closed and head lolled back on Bruce's shoulder.

"Oh, are you two finally ready to rejoin the living?" Tony's voice is still weak, but Bruce is assuming the snark is a good sign, as is the StarkPhone he's fiddling with.

"Those whose hearts stop on the fucking operating table do not get to pass judgment on the rest of us, but nice try." Clint stands and reaches back down to help Bruce to his feet. "Sorry for the floor; the chairs in this place aren't exactly Hulk-proof, and Mr. Overprotective was not so big on leaving."

Bruce digs his palms into his eyes, giving himself a moment to reset his mind, before coming back to reality.

"How are you doing?" he asks Tony, looking around for a chart to fill him in, although he's pretty sure that's a practice that went out of style in the US some years back.

"A couple fragments of the shrapnel in my chest shifted when the arc reactor shut off, and Thor flying me here didn't exactly help, but the surgeons were able to stabilize things once the reactor started up again. Seventeen stitches and I'm grounded for a couple weeks—"

"A month, minimum," Clint supplies.

"—but they've got me on the good drugs, so we'll call it even for now." Tony pulls down the collar of the hospital gown that's more draped over him than tied in place, showing off the arc reactor's faint blue glow beneath tape and gauze. "I'm running out of skin that isn't one big spider web of scar tissue." His chin bends at a sharp angle to let him get a look at the bandage.

"Welcome to the club," Clint says. "You'll love it; there's a ridiculous amount of bragging involved." He settles into one of the cushioned chairs beside the bed, and Bruce realizes for the first time that Clint is favoring his left leg, movements protective and careful not to jostle it.

"ACL sprain—one of those animals got too close and batted me across the street. I'm glad all of the cameras in the city were down; my landing was _shameful_ ," Clint explains when he follows Bruce's line of sight.

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be stuck in a brace for a bit, but nothing dramatic." He gestures for Bruce to take the seat beside him.

Bruce steps towards the door, instead. "I should probably go help the others. The power's still out, right? I might be able to do something, or at least help with the cleanup. The rest of the team can fill me in on what I missed."

The way Clint stretches his body across the space to grab Bruce by the back of the shirt is borderline ballet. "Sorry, Bruce; no letting you go off alone, Cap's orders."

Fear ripples along Bruce's skin. He runs his tongue over his teeth, counting molars and incisors in time with the blood pumping in his temples.

"Look, I just want to help," he says, when he's sure he can keep his voice smooth and words earnest. "It'll be safer for everyone if I'm out there being productive rather than pent up in here."

Clint's wearing a smile on his lips and sadness in his eyes. "You know I'd let you go if I actually thought you believed that, right? You don't have a real great track record with these sorts of moves."

"Clint." How many times in the past weeks has Bruce silently wrapped his mouth around that one syllable? Traced his eyes and fingers over those five letters, not nearly large enough for all they contain. The barriers in his mind tremble at that name, threaten to topple at the sound, and the desire to fixate on it seeps through the cracks in the wall he _cannot_ let himself raze.

The distraction of it is enough that Bruce only realizes moments later that Clint's attention is still fixed on him, waiting to hear whatever thought Bruce was planning to voice.

"You want to know why you woke up here and not out in the aftermath somewhere?" Clint asks when it's clear Bruce doesn't know how to continue. "The Hulk tracked down Thor and basically dragged him to the lab to get Tony and Natasha out. He wouldn't get close to either of them, but he followed Thor's flight the whole way to the hospital and threw one impressively controlled temper tantrum when Cap tried to get him to go help with clean up—all that's left as far as we can tell is to take care of the damage, narrow down who could be behind the whole thing, and figure out what's still blocking the electricity. He waited in a corner of the lobby during the first three hours Tony was in surgery, and then tagged along when Coulson forced me in for an MRI. I had to tell him to back off a few times and let the nurses do their thing, but he listened. He learns more every time I see him, and I think he likes having friends."

In the silence of Bruce trying carefully to process Clint's words without losing his knowledge of right and wrong, Clint tugs on Bruce's shirt, and Bruce allows himself to be reeled in and settled into the chair next to Clint's.

"Does Coulson know I'm here?"

"Coulson, Fury, and probably every single SHIELD agent who's not currently deployed; the number of phones that came out when one of the nurses gave the Hulk a Highlights magazine to look at while he was waiting was, frankly, alarming, given that we're in a hospital." He reaches around, stretching his arm out on the back of Bruce's chair, and squeezes Bruce's far shoulder, skin on skin. "It's okay; we're safe, you're safe, and Manhattan will get sorted out soon enough. Mission accomplished."

There are a lot of things wrong with that statement, but it's a pretty enough lie that Bruce doesn't fight it. His gaze turns to Tony, who's managed to fall asleep despite their conversation, phone gripped tightly in his hand and pressed to his chest just below the edge of the bandage.

"How bad was he?" Bruce whispers without looking at Clint. He knows better than that, even if he doesn't know quite enough to shove away the hand still resting on his shoulder.

"Not quite Coulson after Loki, but by the time Thor got him to a doctor, I'm pretty sure Fury was coming up with contingency plans. The surgery took seven hours total, and it was touch and go the whole time. They had to restart his heart twice during."

"Does Pepper know?"

"Last I head, she's still MIA, but that's not unexpected with the lack of power. Jane and Natasha are looking for her."

"Are there any guesses of who was behind the attack?"

"Not that I know of. By the time Thor flew Tony out, we'd taken down all but a few of whatever those things were that were on the attack. Jane said you thought they were after the reactor powering the tower, so Cap and Natasha went to check it. The doors are usually controlled by Jarvis, so they had to use the air ducts to get in. As far as they could tell with a couple of lanterns in the dark, nothing had gotten in and messed with it. Hill's got a cycle of agents on guard duty to make sure that doesn't change. Other than that, we just have to wait until they get to the source of the outage."

"How much time did I miss?"

"It's been about eighteen hours since you and Coulson joined us, give or take." Clint's hand moves from Bruce's shoulder to the back of his neck, wrapping Bruce's curls around his fingers in a gesture that's too soothing to be safe.

Bruce shivers at the touch.

"Cold?" Clint guesses. "There are some pillows and extra blankets in the cupboard behind the white board." He gestures to a panel with the date, the name of Tony's doctor, and the current on-duty nurse assigned to him printed on it in green ink.

Bruce isn't cold, or not enough to bother doing anything about it, anyway, but the offer is the excuse he needs to keep from being lulled by Clint's touch. He opens the cupboard to find stacks of bedding crammed inside. Grabbing a blanket, Bruce wraps it around his shoulders like a cape, pulling the hem up high over the back of his neck and securing his hands and arms inside before he sits back down, heels perched on the edge of the chair and knees drawn up under his chin so that only his head is exposed. Clint's arm is still resting on the back of his chair, but Bruce is hunched far enough forward that there are solid inches between him and temptation.

"How bad were things this time?" Clint's voice is low and gentle. Bruce doesn't have to ask him to specify, because the tension running electric through every muscle in Clint's posture is more than enough of a tell.

"I already told you I was fine." Bruce says, careful not to let himself fall into the memory of creating the video locked away in his second SHIELD apartment, where sun and sky and fresh air never reached. He crushes the image and throws it behind the wall in his mind. The murderous should not be allowed to pick their fates, and the remorseful should be all the more willing to accept punishment for their crimes.

"Yeah, in a SHIELD-approved video where you looked about as sane as you did the first time I met you."

Clint's hand returns to the base of Bruce's neck, this time as a steady weight. Bruce wills himself not to lean into it.

"You're not going back there, just so you know," Clint adds after a few moments. "We've already talked about it as a team, and even if it means Tony builds you a safe room—or, let's be real, a safe floor—where you can go if you're feeling on edge, then that's what will happen. You're part of a team now; the world needs you, and you don't have the luxury of making these decisions on your own anymore."

"We've already tried that, and you know firsthand how it worked out. It's irrational to do the same thing again and expect the results to be any different."

Clint slouches in his chair and props his booted feet up on the metal rail running around the edge of Tony's mattress. He monitors Tony's sleeping form for a minute, before turning back to Bruce. "You know, the first time I met Natasha, I was seventeen days into a hit mission to take her out. She was the best assassin anyone at SHIELD had ever seen, hands down, and she'd already taken out the last two teams sent in after her, so this time it was just me with Phil in my ear and a brief that said, basically, that it didn't matter how I took her down as long as there were no witnesses and the job got done.

"She figured out I was after her by maybe the second day, and I ended up chasing her through six countries in South America. You should have seen it; she leaves a trail like a ghost—nothing—but I finally caught up to her in this warehouse in some tiny city in Belize, and we ended up face to face, guns drawn, and she was so fucking small and so fucking empty in the eyes. I lowered my gun and she shot me in the shoulder, and I had to reach around with my good arm to pull the comm out of my ear, because I couldn't think with Phil right there.

"She was just so fucking young to be so far gone, so I started talking to her. I honestly have no idea why she didn't just shoot me in the head then, but I talked until she finally started responding, and she helped tie up my shoulder before agreeing to be brought in.

"It was hell for the first six months. Her mind was so trashed they had to basically take her apart and put her together again, and even after that it was almost a year before they'd even trust her with baby missions. During the first of those she tried to run for it, and I had to go talk her back down again. It's been a long fucking journey, is what I'm saying, but that's what it's been: a journey. You screw up and you accidentally burn bridges and you spend more time waking into dead ends then making actual progress, but eventually you start to figure things out. It worked for a child assassin and it can work for you, too."

"People will die, Clint," Bruce says. The words are true, but they still take all of his energy to produce. "Mistakes will happen and the Hulk will get out and people will die. It's bad enough when that's just on me, but if I agree to go back to the tower then those deaths will be on your heads, too. The Avengers can't be responsible for a massacre; I won't let that happen."

Clint pulls his hand away from Bruce's neck, and the loss is borderline painful, until he moves it forward to brush back the hair that has grown long during Bruce's time in captivity, carding it out of his eyes.

"I get it, I do." Clint's voice is as gentle as his touch. "But even with SHIELD there are plenty of risks; you're betting that their security measures will hold, but there's no way to know for sure without a break out attempt, and if it does go badly there would be plenty of people to injure. You're clearly willing to give that risk over to SHIELD's engineers. Could you trust us at least that much? I can guarantee you SHIELD's R&D department has nothing on Tony, and none of us want to have to look you in the eye if something does go badly, which is more than I can say for them."

Bruce has planned for this, has resolved for this, but the concern in Clint's eyes, combined with the way he touches Bruce softly, like he's something to be protected rather than loathed, added to how he spins words together to make even the most insane of ideas sound torturously reasonable, makes Bruce feel like he's breaking apart.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Breathe with me," Clint says, pulling one of Bruce's hands out from the cocoon of the blanket and placing it over the hawk outline on his chest, his own hand pressed over top to hold it in place.

"I can't do it, Clint," Bruce gasps in the midst of trying to get his hyperventilation under control. "I can't agree; you know that."

Clint doesn't respond, focused on keeping his breaths deep and slow until Bruce finally begins to sync with them. He glances over at Tony, who's still sleeping soundly, before locking back onto Bruce's gaze. "Please, for once in your life, let someone help you without making things worse. Give us that much, Bruce."

Bruce is done, is gone; the barricade in his head shatters and his mind floods with everything he hasn't let himself think or feel since Coulson came for his help. "Yes," tears from his throat in a sob.

Clint wraps him in a hug, and Bruce buries his face in the archer's neck and hopes that saltwater won't ruin the supple leather under his cheek.


	23. Chapter 23

Bruce is drifting, adrenaline finally wearing off, replaced by the usual post-Hulk exhaustion, when Tony’s phone goes off. Tony doesn’t even open his eyes as he raises the phone to his ear and answers with a, “Mm?”

Bruce straightens, embarrassment flooding his senses as he wipes drying tears away from the hollows beneath his eyes, careful not to look up at Clint. Clint lets him pull out of his hug, but keeps one arm wrapped around Bruce’s shoulders, thumb massaging his trapezius.

Tony’s eyes snap open and his face lights up. “Hey J, is the tower back on?” His voice is still weak, but he laughs at whatever Jarvis says in response. “Good. Check the bots and then run diagnostics on everything; I’ll be impressed if anything managed to screw with the system, but we need to be sure. Do you know where Pepper is?”

The conversation doesn’t end there, but Bruce loses track of it when Clint’s comm unit starts going off in his pocket. Clint fishes it out with his free hand and pops it in his ear. “Hawkeye,” he says by way of answer. “It’s Cap,” he offers to Tony and Bruce a second later, before his attention shifts to the call.

Bruce uses the combined distractions to pull himself together, dropping his feet to the floor and folding the blanket that hadn’t worked as a shield. He’s still shirtless, but not being wrapped up like a fearful child has got to do something for his how stable he appears overall.

Tony reaches for the glass of water resting on the tray table beside the bed, and Bruce jumps to help him, raising the bed a bit before placing the cup in Tony’s hand. Tony mouths ‘Thank you’ at him before sipping from the straw.

Bruce smiles in response. He takes the cup back when Tony’s done with it and refills it from the pitcher on the counter in the corner of the room, returning the cup to the table and positioning it so that Tony will be able to help himself next time.

He’s just dropping back into his seat when Clint pulls the comm out of his ear. “It looks like the power is back island-wide,” he says with a grin. “Thor was the one who actually found the device that was controlling the outage; apparently the whole 'God of Lightening' thing means he’s also sensitive to whatever negative energy the thing was emitting. It was abandoned, so we still have no idea who was behind it, but that sounds like a job for Jarvis and SHIELD. Cap says Thor pancaked the machine and that they’re headed this way, about ten minutes out.”

“Jarvis is already working on figuring out who caused it,” Tony says, holding the phone’s mic away from his mouth. “Once he’s done making sure no one screwed with anything in the tower he’s going to start pulling up any CCTV feeds from before the outage that might shed some light on this whole thing. It was the middle of the day in Manhattan; there’s no way they were able to pull that off without showing up somewhere.”

“Does he know where Pepper is?” Bruce asks, careful to keep his voice soft in case Jarvis is relaying something important.

“She’s safe and sound in her office, pissed about how much this is going to cost SI in terms of lost productivity. She’ll meet us back at the tower when I’m discharged.”

“Is there a timeframe for that?” Bruce asks Clint, as Tony drops back into sorting things out with Jarvis.

“His surgeon wants to keep him at least a few days for observation, but now that the power’s back I’m pretty sure Tony's going to force them to release him to the tower's medical wing as soon as he’s off the phone. He wasn’t doing so well with the whole hospital atmosphere earlier, although I think having the Hulk around helped.”

“Why?” Bruce asks.

“The Hulk wasn’t about to let anything happen to Tony that he was even slightly less than okay about. It’s nice to have someone with that kind of power watching your back.”

Bruce shakes his head, ready to offer a rebuttal, when the deep sound of Thor’s voice echoes down the hallway to them. He’s still too far away for the words to be distinguishable, but his tone is excited.

Tony ends his call just as the other half of the team fills his room. A nurse follows them. He’s young and looks a bit star-struck, his cheeks bright red and his gaze avoiding eye contact as he starts to check Tony’s vitals.

Tony notices it immediately and turns on his public charm, grinning and patting the guy on the arm. “Hey kid, get me some discharge papers in the next twenty minutes and I’ll make sure you go home today with a phone full of pictures of you with the Avengers. We can even do autographs.”

The nurse turns completely crimson, mumbling, “sure,” with a small smile on his lips as he finishes up his checks and scuttles from the room.

“Are you stable enough to be moved?” Steve asks.

“Should be now that the reactor’s back on,” Tony says, facade dropping. “Plus, Jarvis can keep a better eye on me than this whole system put together.”

Steve nods, turns to look for a seat, and his eyebrows raise as he seems to realize for the first time that Bruce is in the room. “It’s good to have you back, Bruce," he says, eyes gentle and sad at the same time. “I’ve already told Coulson that you won’t be returning to SHIELD, in case there was any doubt on that end.”

Clint squeezes Bruce’s shoulder as Thor adds, “Aye, you will not be taken from us again, my friend; there is nowhere else safer for you than with a company worthy of your mind and beast.”

“We need to work on your terms, Thor; the Allspeak is clearly lacking,” Tony says. “Calling the Hulk a beast is like calling the reactor an electromagnet; technically true, but not anywhere close to completely accurate.”

The conversation cuts off with the return of the nurse, followed by a man who introduces himself to the room as Tony's doctor.

Tony turns the charm back on. “Just the man I want to see. Let's get me out of here, shall we?”

The doctor, as it turns out, is neither intimidated by being in a room full of superheros nor in a rush to get Tony on his way in his present condition. In the end, it takes a video conference with Jarvis, who uses his cameras to give the doctor a thorough tour of the tower's medical wing, before he finally agrees to release Tony into the team's care and gets the paperwork started.

True to his word, Tony makes sure the nurse who got the ball rolling ends up with close to a dozen pictures of himself with the team. He also gets all six of their signatures on an x-ray of Tony's chest, along with a doodle of Mjolnir on a paper towel, because Thor, crowned prince of Asgard and god of Thunder, is still elated by the “charming Midgardian traditions” of celebrity/fan interactions, even if he doesn't completely understand them yet.

Tony whines about the wheelchair the hospital insists he use for his trip up to the roof where the Quinjet is waiting, which Bruce hopes is a sign that he's starting to feel better.

\---------

There's a figure waiting for them on the tower's landing pad. At first, when it's still just a dark speck against the concrete, Bruce assumes it's Pepper, but as they get closer that illusion is chased away by a chill in his blood.

“Hope you guys are ready for some tense conversation,” Clint says from the cockpit. “Fury's waiting for us.”

Tony snorts. “Are you implying he's not here just to congratulate us on a job well done?” His voice is starting to weaken again, and he's spent the short ride home nodding off and jerking back awake.

“What's the plan, Steve?” Natasha asks quietly, brow arched.

Steve straightens in his seat. “Clint and Thor, I want you to take Tony down and get him in bed; make sure Jarvis is up to date on his condition and med schedule. Natasha, you and I will see what Fury wants. Bruce, it's up to you whether you want to join us or help with Tony.”

“I'll go with Tony.” It's the coward's answer, and when he says, "with Tony," he means, "with Clint," but at least he has the shaky excuse of helpfulness to hide behind.

The excuse lasts until he steps out of the Quinjet and Fury barks, “Banner, we need to talk.”

Bruce's stomach turns over, even as Steve says, “Bruce is busy, Director. Why don't you talk to Natasha and me instead?”

Fury doesn't even glance at the captain. “Couson sent me because he's still tying up loose ends with this latest op,” he tells Bruce. “He said you have some some things you need to sort out with us.”

Bruce's blood runs cold. Obviously Coulson, who he had demanded figure out a way to get him back into SHIELD custody, would make damn sure he kept his word. It's for the best, of course, but the loss of the choice Bruce had finally allowed himself to make—of the hope he was stupid enough to begin building on—makes him taste bile at the back of his throat.

He swallows, nods to Fury, and turns back to the others—Clint and Natasha flanking him, Thor and Steve playing bookends for Tony as he slowly maneuvers the steps down from the jet—and offers them a smile that he hopes conveys the acquiescence he doesn't trust his voice with offering.

Clint limps forward, mouth carved into a sharp line and gaze hard, to Bruce's side. “You don't have to pretend we don't all know why you want to talk to him, Director. Bruce has already agreed to stay here, so you pretty much made the trip out for nothing, sorry.”

“Thank you, Agent, but I am sure Bruce is capable of speaking for himself away from the pressure of your team,” Fury says, barely sparing Clint a glance. “Bruce?”

Steve is even less subtle than Clint as he pulls gingerly away from Tony, making sure Thor has him, and stalks forward to flank Bruce's other side. “Anything you have to say to Dr. Banner you can say to all of us.”

Fury raises a brow at him. “You really want to get into this again here with Stark half dead on his feet?”

“Please.” Tony's voice is still weak, but Bruce doesn't even have to turn to know he's rolling his eyes. “Don't use me as an excuse for your cowardice. You know you're not going to win this one.”

That gets a glare out of Fury. The director's single eye scours the team, coming to rest on Steve. “Fine. I'll send Coulson by when he's finished to lay out some ground rules, since you're all so eager to flirt with pandemonium. And just so you know, when this does, inevitably, blow up in your faces, SHIELD and the World Security Council will hold you six personally responsible. Good luck with that.”

It's only after the SHIELD helicopter is a fading noise that Clint catches Bruce's wrist and gives it a squeeze. “Ignore the fear-mongering bullshit; Fury just hates to lose. You okay?”

Bruce has no idea if he's okay or not; his mind is still trying to process the idea that the Avengers stood up to Fury and won, that he won't be going back to a world without windows or choices. It had felt real enough in the hospital, but now that his decision is actually being played out, Bruce is caught somewhere between feeling as though he's in a dream and being absolutely convinced that there is a catch. As if there could possibly be a catch worse than the Hulk getting loose because of poor decisions.

He covers the storm in his mind with a jerky nod.

Clint squeezes his wrist again. “Things will only get better from here,” he promises, before wrapping his arm over Bruce's shoulders, using him as a support as they lead the way to the medical wing, the rest of the team following close behind.

Pepper and Jane are both there waiting for them. Pepper does a spectacular job of playing at composure, keeping her questions and comments soft and clinical in the face of the fact that Tony slipped away twice today before the medical team dragged him back. Bruce is only half able to listen to her hold it together, distracted by Jane throwing her arms around him, careful not to jostle Clint.

“You saved my life, Bruce,” she says into his shoulder, breath warm on his bare skin. “Thank you so much.”

Bruce reaches up to pat her back a few times. “The Hulk did,” he assumes. “I don't remember anything.”

She pulls back so he can see her eyes, rich brown and sharply serious. “He kept those animals from ripping me to pieces, herded me out of the lobby and got me to Thor, before dragging Thor back inside to go help Natasha and Tony.”

“The Hulk was a formidable ally,” Thor agrees from Tony's bedside, speaking over over Tony's assurances to Pepper that he was doing fine, all things considered. “It is a relief to have the two of you back with us once again.”

“Thanks,” Bruce says. Probably, he should have more than one syllable to offer them, but the fact that he's here at all is one that he's still trying to find room for in his mind.

Clint breaks his focus before Bruce can get too buried inside his head. “I need to get my knee elevated or else it's going to swell to the point that I'll have to cut these pants off if I ever want to get out of them. You mind?” he asks with a nod toward the cluster of armchairs around Tony's new bed.

Bruce helps him over and gets him settled, injured knee propped up on the edge of the bed. He asks Jarvis for the location of an ice pack, and the AI directs him to a mini-freezer on the other side of the room. The rest of the team, plus Pepper and Jane, find places of their own in the semicircle of chairs, leaving Bruce a spot beside Clint.

Tony has Jarvis start up Raiders of the Lost Arc on the screen opposite his bed and then falls asleep within the first few minutes, while the others watch the film or talk quietly amongst themselves. Coulson will, no doubt, be by soon to conduct a debrief of the attack on Manhattan and lay out rules for the team about Bruce staying with them, but for now the group settles into comfortable companionship.

For the first time in so damn long, Bruce catches himself wishing time would slow down and let him savor this.

Clint reaches out and pulls Bruce's head down onto his shoulder, planting a kiss in his hair, and the moment is perfect.


	24. Chapter 24

_Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ is half over when Jarvis announces that Coulson is on his way up. Tony, who's been out for a film and a half, jerks awake at the quiet words and scans the room with wide eyes.

“Stark tower, medical wing,” Pepper says, squeezing his hand where it's been locked in hers since they got him settled into bed.

Tony turns toward the sound of her voice, awareness dawning in his expression, before taking in the rest of the team. Steve left near the middle of Raiders to dig up some food for everybody, but no one else has moved from their seats. Tony laughs hoarsely. "I would have sent you all down to the theater room if I had known you actually wanted to watch something.”

“Just making sure you're doing okay, Stark,” Steve says with a smile, holding out his fifth box of Cracker Jacks.

Tony grabs a small handful as the door opens and Coulson steps into the room. The agent's hair and suit are perfectly in place, but the hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, and he sinks into an empty chair with less than precise movements.

Clint straightens in his seat, shoulder bumping against Bruce's. “Sir?”

“There have been some...concerns about how to best handle this situation,” Coulson says without preamble.

“I'm assuming you mean the situation with figuring out who was behind the blackout,” Tony offers around the popcorn in his mouth. “That's the only situation here that SHIELD has the authority to be concerned about.”

Coulson levels his gaze at Tony. “I'm not going to dignify that with a response. We are all on the same side in terms of wanting both what is best for Bruce and what is safest for everyone he comes into contact with, so we need to have a civilized discussion about how to make that happen. Agreed?”

There's a pause, before the team begins to nod in assent.

“Good, because Fury's been talking with the WSC, and they're less than thrilled with the idea of Bruce living freely in the heart of New York. There need to be contingency plans to cover anything that could go wrong. Bruce, you are welcome to be here for this, of course, but if you think it might be too triggering, feel free to offer your input and then leave us to sort out the details.”

It's a nonviable option from the instant Coulson strings the words together. Bruce would much prefer to not have to go over all the ways he could take out half the city, but if he's going to even pretend that he deserves the freedom to be sitting here with the others, then he needs to be able to do basic human acts, like participating in a discussion. “I'm okay,” he says. “I'll let you know if it becomes too much.”

Clint reaches out and grabs Bruce's wrist, fingers gently massaging over his pulse point, the touch an echo of their meeting with Fury on the Helicarrier all those months back.

The feeling of not having to carry the weight of his symptoms alone makes Bruce want to cry.

* * *

In the end, their talk with Coulson lasts two and a half hours, and only ends because Tony drifts off for the fourth time and Thor is snoring loudly enough to make it hard to hear.

Coulson bids them goodnight on his way out the door, a tablet full of the plans and guidelines they've pieced together in hand. It's nearly all focused on how unexpected Hulk appearances will be handled, who will be notified when, and how he'll be contained. For now, the only actual changes to Bruce's life will be the return of a pulse monitor—Tony's already started drowsily assembling schematics for a better version, and Bruce doesn't even have the first one yet—and a daily check-in with Coulson, Steve, and Jarvis on how he's doing.

The knowledge that this is all too good to be true weighs down his bones and sits solid and mountainous on his shoulders. It is one thing to be here, physically present with the team, but Bruce knows better than to get used to this. You can't be crushed by the removal of something you never thought you'd be able to keep anyway, he reminds himself.

Clint, who follows Bruce to his floor, to his room, to his bed, is going to make that a challenge.

“I know I've been gone a while,” Bruce says, as Clint sits down on the edge of the duvet and starts unlacing his boots, being careful with his knee. “But I'm pretty sure this is still my room.”

“Someone's got to hang around to make sure you don't go disappearing on us again."

“I almost killed you, Clint,” Bruce reminds him. “I had to do whatever it took to make myself less of a threat.”

Clint doesn't respond. He finishes with his shoes and adds socks, arm guards, and uniform to the pile, until he's sitting in nothing but his boxers, his injured knee dark and swollen against the pale skin of his leg. “Did you miss us at all?” he asks quietly.

Bruce doesn't mean to start laughing, it just happens. He laughs until he's doubled over, tears in his eyes. It feels almost like sobbing. Clint is almost to the door before Bruce gets a hold of himself. He practically runs to block the exit from Clint's approach, chest heaving and cheeks wet. “Every second,” he breathes. “Every second of every day I was in that place. I tried not to, because I couldn't settle when I was constantly waiting for you to come find me, but I couldn't stop it. My time here, with the team, not having to hide who I am or constantly be looking over my shoulder, has been one of the brightest experiences of my life.”

“Not bright enough to keep you here in the first place, though," Clint notes. "Masochism isn't a virtue, Banner, even if you can dress it up like one.”

“I'm pretty sure your version of masochism is what most people would consider temperance, which is one of the big seven.” This close, Bruce can see the pale line of a scar running from about an inch above Clint's right eyebrow back into his hair, one he didn't have the last time Clint was here in this room with him. Bruce traces it with ginger fingertips, and Clint jerks away from the touch.

Bruce huffs a mirthless laugh. “I don't even have to tell you why I have to be so careful, not when it's been carved in your skin.”

Clint folds his arms over the contours of his bare chest. “Right, that's one misstep that we're never going to get over, huh? So where are the lines, then, between you and me? I get to hold you and calm you down and you get to shove me away and run every time something good starts to happen in your life? Because I'll take that if it's all your willing to give, but I just want to know where we're drawing up the boundaries.”

'You were the one who started this conversation,' Bruce wants to say. Or, 'You know that this is the way things are for me.' He settles on, “I don't know.” The confession twists his chest in a way he hasn't felt since Betty. Bruce holds out his hands, calloused and empty and all he's ever had to give away. “I can't explain what it feels like to always have to be braced for the moment when you lose control. Not that the bracing helps, but at least when you're expecting to wake up naked in the middle of a crater there's less mental whiplash to deal with. I can go from picking up a few groceries or waiting at a bus stop to counting causalities in what feels like no time at all, so I think it's at least a bit understandable that I try to be prepared for it. I agreed to be here, Clint; not locked away again, because I'm weak and you're convincing, but that doesn't change who and what I am. I'm sorry, but you have to understand that I make the choices that I make because I have to. Everything else—emotions, wants, all of the upper levels of Maslow's hierarchy—comes second to that.”

“You act like there's this bomb in your brain that's liable to go off any second and take half the planet with it,” Clint says, voice rising. “The Hulk isn't like that; he learns more every time he's let out, and he wants to be taught. You can't just treat him like some mindless force; he's better than that and he deserves better than that. Honestly, you're the one who doesn't want to change; you're holding him back and you don't even care. It's not fair.”

Bruce feels like his lungs are boiling, his heart stoking the fire with every thud. He stares up at the ceiling, counting breaths, and thinks of the stars hidden away far above his eyes. He's excited for the possibility of seeing them again and he focuses on determining which constellations are currently overhead, mind forcefully wiped of everything else, until he's stable enough to risk saying, “I'm sorry you're stuck with me, then. I didn't realize I was the burden you all had to bear for the chance to hang out with the other guy every once in a while. You could have just said something.”

Clint grabs Bruce's face in his hands, dragging it down until Bruce has no option but to either meet his gaze or close his eyes. He falls into the trap of the first before his mind has the chance to settle on the second. Clint's face is pulled taunt, lines sharp and furious. “How is it possible,” he seethes, “that you can be so smart and so stupid and so controlled and so _fucking_ infuriating all at the same time?”

Bruce closes his eyes against the assault, but Clint's hands rattle his head. “No, look at me; do not check out here. I am done with this 'you against the world' shit conversation we keep coming back to because your brain won't change its default from the idiotic belief that you are somehow unworthy of every basic human need just because of some accident that you were the victim of. There is no pushing me away like fucking everyone else in your fucking life, Bruce, and I will keep saying this to you every damn day if I have to, but I want you to hear that I'm already sick of it, because there is no expiration date on whatever the hell you call this—us—and, yes, you get to call the shots on parameters and definitions and all that shit, but the fact that you think I'm some flighty opportunist or whatever you've categorized me as, whatever makes you think that after all of this I'm still looking for the chance to drop you, is just a little bit degrading.”

Clint's expression melts; anger peeling away and revealing a blank canvas. He drops his hands and takes a step back, gaze falling and one corner of his mouth twisting up. “I'm used to not being good enough, just so you know. I've got a whole lifetime's worth of experience in not measuring up, and if that's what this is you can say so and I'll back off. But you're stuck with me friendship-wise, because I'm giving myself that and because you need it, so you can suck it up and deal.”

It's easy, Bruce realizes, to let his own world consume him and stay blind to the fact that they're both so splintered and jagged in so many ways, held together with string and broken glass and the shadows of past experiences. A matched set.

The words that he wants to say, things like 'perfection' and 'impossible' and 'heart-breakingly unaware' are all too dangerous to be pursued. “We'll come back here,” he tells Clint. “We will never stop having this conversation, ever, and that's not fair. You deserve so much better than I will ever be able to give you.”

Clint shakes his head, and something in his eyes makes him look ancient. “I don't want better. I told you; you're stuck with me.” He shifts—Bruce can only imagine how much his knee must be throbbing after being on it for so long—and gestures to the door behind Bruce's back. “Look, it's the middle of the night and I've said my piece. Let's sleep on it and we can talk more in the morning if you think we need to.”

Bruce remembers that he's blocking the exit. He shuffles aside, picks up Clint's discarded outfit to send with him, and whispers the word, “stay,” before he realizes what he's doing.

Clint smiles resignedly. “You're tired, Doc. I'll still be around in the morning, don't worry, and I'll have Jarvis keep an eye out to make sure you're still here, too. No need to be rash.” He takes his clothes from Bruce's hands, and Bruce forces himself to let them go without resistance. Clint leans in, presses a kiss to Bruce's forehead, and leaves without a word, door clicking shut behind him.

Bruce looks around at the huge room, at the bed that's still far too large for one, and turns off the light.


	25. Chapter 25

Bruce lies awake in bed for two hours, before asking Jarvis if he's allowed to go up on the roof. When the AI assures him that he's more than welcome, Bruce layers on a collection the clothes that fill his dresser—all provided with the room—and heads up.

The light pollution from the city is severe, but Bruce can just make out some of the brighter constellations. He was close, with his guesses down in his bedroom, but not spot on about their positions. The smell of wet concrete is in the air, but the sky is clear, apart from a few clouds on the northern horizon.

He walks to the edge of the roof and looks down over the side at the streets far below, still thick with cars despite the hour. So many people living so many lives. It reminds him a bit of Calcutta, before the differences come rushing in; money, resources, opportunities. Bruce has met so many incredible people in so many corners of the world, and now he's standing on top of the most expensive building in New York City in the middle of the night, because you can do that sort of thing when you live there.

Life is rarely fair to those who deserve it.

Bruce is doing a good job of not thinking about Clint, until he realizes just what a good job of it he's doing. The revelation sends him spiraling into thoughts of strong arms and precise actions. Bruce doesn't know what he wants—what he's allowed to have. He's only ever been with women before, only ever wanted that since his middle school years, but Clint is the most alive person he has ever met, puts his whole being behind everything he does, and the power of his enthusiasm is gravitational, a force Bruce can't seem to fight even if he could convince himself that he wanted to.

Bruce knows all about anger and violence and disaster, and nearly nothing about love. He had his mother, for a little while, friends he could count on one hand, a few dates, and Betty. Stacked against his father, his childhood as a small, smart kid, and his monster, they are hardly enough to shift the scales at all. Even if they did, what would it matter? Since the experiment, he's only ever been able to stay in the same place for a few months, maximum, before something goes wrong. How the hell can he even consider getting involved with someone when the longest relationship he's ever had has been with the beast that takes over his body and forces him to pick up the pieces? There's no room in his life for anyone else on top of that, especially not someone who he's already abused multiple times.

But _Clint._

Clint, who isn't phased by anything, who digs his heels in with a grin and refuses to back down from anything. Who still, after everything that's happened, worries about the Other Guy rather than fearing him.

Clint, who somehow manages to entertain the delusion that he is less than worthy of everything Bruce could ever possibly hope to give him.

It's the memory of Clint's posture, his tone, when he'd offered Bruce the out of not thinking Clint was good enough for him, that sets Bruce's feet on a retreat back to the elevator. The button for Clint's floor has a cartoon sticker of a bow and arrow next to the number, in case Bruce could ever possibly manage to forget which one was his. He presses the button and spends the ride down listing to himself every reason why this is the single stupidest thing he has ever done in his life—despite the staggering competition—but he still gets off when the doors open into the hallway outside of Clint's suite.

He knocks on the door. He could have Jarvis tell Clint that he's here, but he doesn't want to wake him if he's out. The thought makes Bruce snort; like he's expecting Clint to just be hanging out in his living room in the middle of the night, rather than, you know, sleeping.

The door opens before Bruce can chide himself for his insanely unrealistic expectations, and Clint squints at him from the darkness of the doorway.

"It's not the morning yet," Clint notes. He's dressed in sweats and a SHIELD hoodie, his left cheek imprinted with pillowcase creases. How he heard the knock is beyond Bruce, but that doesn't stop him from feeling bad about it.

"Sorry. I'm sorry; can we just...?" he gestures towards the shadowy room behind Clint's back.

"I'm not letting you in just to pick a fight when you're clearly running on no sleep," Clint says. "I told you we could talk in the morning if you wanted to, and I meant it. Okay?"

It's a completely reasonable request, and one that Bruce can't convince himself to follow. "I won't sleep, even if I do wait until the morning, so you might as well listen to me now."

Clint wipes a hand over his eyes with a sigh and flips the light switch on the wall next to him. "Close the door behind you," he says as he flops loose-limbed onto the sofa in his living room.

This is the first time Bruce has been in Clint's space, he realizes as he shuts the door and looks around the room. The furniture is dark and modern, and the walls are crammed full of paintings, photos, and shelves of knickknacks. It's not at all what Bruce would have guessed Clint's tastes to be, but he loves it.

Bruce sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of Clint, their knees slotted together, and Clint raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know how much I can give you—how much the Other Guy will interfere with—or what this will look like at all," Bruce warns. "I've spent most of my adult life on the run, making sure to keep people at a distance, because anything else would be putting them in danger. So the idea of actually pursuing some kind of a relationship makes me feel like I should be packing a bag and booking a flight out of the country. And you should be aware that being with me will be one big minefield of triggers and panic. I can't promise that it will ever be any better than one step forward, two steps back, but if none of that sends you running away in terror like a normal person, then I'm willing to try." It comes out in a rush, and Bruce takes a few deep breaths before asking, "is that okay?"

Clint's breath leaves him in a huff. He looks up at the ceiling over their heads like he's expecting some divine message and then reaches for Bruce's elbow, pulling them both to their feet. "You have no idea how hard you're making it to take the high road here," he says, guiding Bruce further into the suite, through a doorway, and into the bedroom beyond.

This space, too, is crammed with art and mementos that Bruce only gets to look at in passing as Clint leads him toward the unmade bed in the middle of the room.

Clint makes a fleeting attempt at straightening the blankets, before saying, "That's as good as it's going to get tonight, sorry."

He jumps, tumbling toward the far side of the bed, and grabs Bruce's hand at the last second, pulling him down onto the mattress.

"In the morning," Clint says, twisting on his side so they're face to face, "when you've slept and had time to reconsider, we will talk about it." He raises Bruce's hand, still caught in his own, up to his lips, presses a kiss to the meat of his palm, and twists to hit the light switch next to the bed.

Bruce lays awake in the dark, trying to sort the avalanche of scattered thoughts that won't stop pouring through his mind, until Clint's breath deepens and evens out. The rhythm gives Bruce something to focus on besides his thoughts, and lulls him to sleep.

* * *

Bruce wakes up in an empty bed to the smell of coffee and the rise and fall of a hushed discussion. He follows the sound into Clint's kitchen, where he's leaning against the counter-top talking to Natasha, who's sitting on the granite.

The conversation breaks off as Bruce enters. Both agents turn to smile at him over the tension Bruce can feel crowding the space.

"That would be my cue to leave," Natasha says, placing the mug in her hands in the sink and dropping silently to the floor. She plants a kiss on Clint's cheek and squeezes Bruce's wrist as she passes him on her way out.

"You want tea?" Clint asks. "I headed up some water earlier for it, but I wasn't sure what time you'd wake up, so it probably needs a couple more minutes." He turns the burner on under the kettle on the stove and pulls open a cupboard next to the fridge. "Mugs and tea are in here; help yourself."

Bruce pulls down a mug and busies himself with looking through the options of tea as he asks, "When do we get to talk?"

"When you've had something to drink and I've thrown together some breakfast." Clint digs through the fridge for a few minutes, then the freezer, then the pantry. "It looks like Frosted Flakes and toast are the only vegetarian breakfast options I have. Is that okay? I can also go raid the community kitchen."

"Frosted Flakes sound great," Bruce lies, turning off the stove and pouring hot water over the bag of lavender mint he'd picked out. He's not a sugar-in-the-morning type, or sugar-at-all really, but he's pretty sure he's going to come out of his skin if he has to wait on the toaster for their conversation, and if that isn't a flashing red warning sign that he is making one hell of a mistake, Bruce doesn't know what is.

Clint gathers up the cereal, milk, bowls, spoons, and his coffee cup, and leads the way to the living room. "I hope you're okay with eating on the couch; the kitchen table is pretty much just for looks around here."

"You watched me during my first time with SHIELD; you've seen how much I care where I end up eating."

Clint stops in the middle of arranging his collection of breakfast items on the coffee table to look up at Bruce. He opens his mouth, hands raising in a gesture that's aborted before Bruce can identify it. Clint's head ducks again as he finishes setting things in place and he sits one one side of the couch.

As Bruce pours himself a bowl of cereal and adds some milk, he wonders how they managed to go from sharing a bed last night to stilted conversation and eye contact avoidance. He takes a bite and says, "I have tea, I have breakfast; can we talk?"

"Yeah. Clint squares his shoulders and holds his coffee in white-knuckled hands. "Yeah, of course." His mouth pulls into an approximation of a smirk and he stares down into his cup.

Bruce realizes, with a start, that Clint is bracing himself, ready for Bruce to take the out of Clint's insistence that they wait until the morning to cement anything. As if their middle of the night talk had never happened, as if Bruce didn't wake up in his bed this morning. The discovery nearly knocks the air from Bruce's lungs; the fact that Clint was—is—convinced that giving Bruce time to think would guarantee that he would change his mind, and that he did it anyway, even after Bruce showed up in his room, is just one more example of the discrepancy between the two of them.

He can't even pretend that he deserves this man, but he'll be damned if he proves Clint's fears right.

"What I said last night, about trying to make this relationship work, in spite of the war zone that is sharing a body with the Other Guy," Bruce says, watching the lines of Clint's jaw pull taunt behind the mask of his smile. "That offer is still on the table, if you want it. Personally, I think it's a horrible choice and that you could do better, but if you're willing to put up with all of my baggage and hang ups and everything, then I'm willing to see where this goes."

Clint's posture doesn't relax. If anything, it sharpens. "Being willing to do something isn't the same as actually wanting it, Bruce," he explains gently. "I'm not saying _I_ don't want this—of course I do, obviously—but this needs to be more than just another hoop you force yourself to jump through because your twisted sense of expectations demands it."

The resignation in Clint's tone does dangerous things to Bruce's sense of calm.

"Damn it, Clint, for a guy who's been pursuing this relationship practically since we met, you're not so good at accepting things," Bruce says without heat. "Yes, I want this. Yes, I think it's a horrible idea that could potentially end in a massacre, but I've spent a long time running from every possibility of good in my life, and I want to try something different." He puts his bowl down and scoots closer to Clint. When Clint doesn't edge away, Bruce raises his hands to Clint's face, thumbs landing perpendicular to the cut of his cheekbones, and leans in.

It's a bad kiss, mainly because Clint doesn't respond. When Bruce pulls back, he's met with narrowed blue eyes under lowered brows, trying, it feels, to crack open his skull and figure out what is going on in his head. Bruce's first instinct is to apologize and look away, but he stares back and waits.

The silence makes Bruce's ribs ache. There isn't enough room inside them for his lungs to expand, and he's feeling light-headed and poorly sized inside his body when Clint speaks.

"I'm used to fighting for the things I want; I'm not used to getting them." The words sound like gravel in his throat. "Or, not to getting to keep them, anyway. Kind of a combination of a screwed up childhood and stuff that happened in the circus, but I'm safe as long as whatever I'm trying for is out of reach, because that way I don't make the mistake of actually thinking it's mine." He laughs, head shaking. "That's fucked up, huh?"

Bruce takes one of Clint's hands in both of his and squeezes. Clint squeezes back.

"The problem is," he continues, "I'm good at seeing patterns in things, and the pattern of finally getting things just to lose them is one of the underlying themes of my life. It started with losing my parents and it's still repeating; I'm found by SHIELD, work under a man I actually respect, and then he's murdered by the guy I smuggle onto the Helicarrier. It doesn't matter that Coulson's back; the pattern's already been reinforced for the thousandth time, and I just...it's easy to fake being well-adjusted; it's a lot harder to actually be it.

"Sorry," he adds, pulling his hand free to scrub at his face. "I'm not usually this morose." When he drops his hands, the man behind them is cockily confident, all signs of loss and sorrow paved over by gleaming eyes and a toothy grin.

It's Clint who reaches for Bruce's face this time, who plants an enthusiastic kiss on chapped lips, before pulling away far enough to meet Bruce's eyes. "Ignore all of that; I'm an idiot. Whatever you want, whatever you'll give me for as long as you'll give it to me; that's what I want. Okay?"

Bruce should correct him, string together a laundry list of ways Clint is the settler in this relationship and write an ode of promises that things will be different, but Bruce's promises haven't held weight in years, and Clint only seems able to hear what he already believes, anyway. Instead, Bruce reaches forward and writes, with his lips on Clint's skin, a silent oath of, "I will try, I will try, I will try."


	26. Chapter 26

There's a huge learning curve to this whole relationship thing, and Bruce wants to do things right. Clint deserves them done right, even if Bruce has no idea what that means in the context of a gay relationship—his mind still catches on that word every time he rolls it through his thoughts, which isn't helping. Dates, he's pretty sure, are universal, which is why he asked Clint out—6:00 p.m. tonight, wear anything—and retreated under the pretense of going to check on Tony. Mostly, he's going to pick Tony's brain for advice and ideas, praying that Tony doesn't see this as an opportunity for more than his usual level of snark and innuendo.

He'd checked with Jarvis to make sure Tony was awake and up for a visitor when he'd gotten into the elevator, and Tony greets him with a grin as he steps into the medical wing. He's still in bed, but it looks like the only reason for that is someone brought half his lab to him. Tony's propped up with pillows, a StarkTab and a collection of tools and parts laid out on the bed table in front of him, and Dum-E positioned near his elbow. The bot has a screwdriver in his claw, although he drops it as he rolls over to Bruce, grabbing his shirt and tugging him to Tony's bedside.

"Hey, what have I said about pulling on clothes?" Tony demands, glaring at Dum-E. His voice is softer than usual, but Bruce doesn't pick up on any pain tells.

Dum-E drops his grip with a whir of servos and rolls around behind Bruce, claw open on the small of his back to push him the rest of the way.

"Sorry, he wants to show off what we've been working on." Tony says when Bruce apparently arrives where Dum-E wants him and the bot darts off, wheeling around to Tony's other side and snatching something up from under his soldering iron. He holds it out to Bruce.

"He gets like this whenever I'm hurt," Tony explains, pushing the bot's claw out of the way once Bruce takes his offering. " _Not_ something I programmed into him, but that's what I get for making a learning AI."

"Pulse monitor," Bruce guesses as he studies the cuff of metal Dum-E had given him. The design is similar to the bracelets Tony uses to call his suits, but this one buckles in place to form a complete ring. "It's been less than twelve hours since I last saw you; there's no way you made this _and_ got decent sleep last night."

Tony snorts. "Pepper and I have an agreement; I don't get up for three days, and she doesn't nag me about how much of those three days is spent working. Try it on and let's see how it works; the monitor's connected to Jarvis, so he'll be able to keep an eye on things regardless of where you are. The joints are all designed to snap under pressure, so you're not going to hurt yourself if you transform."

Bruce puts it on, the thin metal cool against the skin of his wrist, and rolls his hand around to test how the band moves. It sits flush against his skin, not so tight as to inhibit movement, but not loose enough to catch on things or get in the way. "Feels good," he says.

"What's it look like on your end, J?"

"Doctor Banner's current heart rate is sixty-one bests per minute, Sir; well below the 'threshold of awesome' you have assigned," Jarvis says dryly.

Bruce snorts. "Threshold of awesome?"

"Hey, my tech, my terms," Tony says with a smirk, leaning back against his pillows. "Let me know if you want me to tweak it at all."

Bruce nods, mind skittering to find a tactful way to bring up the relationship he's stumbled into and how desperately he needs advice.

Tony's smile goes toothy. "That's quite the expression, Dr. Banner; do I get to hear about what's causing it?"

It's only then that Bruce realizes his face is pinched. He lowers his head, distracting himself by fiddling with the monitor as he says, "I could use some dating advice."

Tony whistles. "Well, you came to the right fount of information. Who's the lucky lady?"

"Think less lady and more resident archer."

Tony's voice climbs. "Clint?! I mean, it is Clint, right? We don't have some other archer hanging around who I just haven't stumbled across yet, do we? Because I'd like to think I'd notice something like that."

"No, it's Clint." The weight of how bad a decision it was to talk to Tony hunches Bruce's shoulders. It's not that he's ashamed of saying yes to Clint—not even close—it's the jolting realization that, just because he's part of a team that clearly has strong views about how safe he is to be out in society, that doesn't even begin to mean that the team will support the idea of him in a relationship. If anything, they're sure to have a solid collection of bullet points to add to his list of reasons why this whole thing is one hell of a bad idea.

He should have gone to the team before getting Clint's hopes up; Bruce feels like an ass for not realizing that sooner. They more than deserve a say in any decision he makes that could put them all—and every other person working in or near the tower, for that matter—in even greater danger.

Somewhere in the back of Bruce's mind, he acknowledges that he's cycling, panic growing as his thoughts trip over one another in an ever-building hurricane of theoretical catastrophe. He tries to stifle the anxiety and smother the images of bloody bodies and aftermath that are flooding his mind, but the attempts become more anxiety that feeds the fire.

The band on his wrist begins to hum quietly, low pulsing vibrations—much slower than his own pounding heart—tripping his attention.

"Dr. Banner, If you would be so kind as to take a seat and breathe on my count." Jarvis' voice causes Bruce to jump.

He drops into one of the chairs around Tony's bed and forces himself to follow Jarvis' rhythm of, "Breathe in, one, two, three, and out, one, two, three."

"How's it working?" Tony asks over the AI's repetitions. "I was reading up on heartbeat regulation and distraction tactics, because Coulson got all picky about how the monitor should actually respond to pulse spikes, so the vibrations are based on that, but I can always change things if they're not helping." He reaches for Bruce's cuffed wrist, hand closing around it for a few pulses.

Somewhere between Jarvis' steady words, Tony's idiotically fearless badgering, and the concerned whirring of Dum-E in the background of it all—how Tony managed to give the bot the ability to sound worried despite his lack of language is a mystery—Bruce finds an anchor for his calm. The monitor goes still as Jarvis asks, "How are you feeling now, Doctor?"

Bruce breathes out a shaky, "Okay," as Tony says, "Time on that one, Jarvis?"

"Seven minutes, forty-eight seconds of Dr. Banner's pulse being elevated to response parameters, Sir."

"And there's our baseline. How was it, Bruce? Any modifications I should make?"

Bruce is one hundred percent convinced he will never get used to the way Tony gleefully courts disaster. "Fine. Good. The monitor and Jarvis helped; it was easier to calm down with both."

"Great," Tony says, batting at Dum-E, who's laid off the worried tones in exchange for trying his best to fluff the pillows keeping his inventor seated upright. "Am I supposed to ask about what made you see green, or can we go back to the _fantastically_ interesting topic of your interoffice relationship and just wait to see if it crops up again?"

If he were being logical, this would be the part where Bruce backtracks, calling a team meeting and making sure the rest of the group is okay with one more giant potential trigger in his repertoire, but he's already battled this out with Clint, and Tony isn't exactly acting disapproving.

Like a coward, Bruce decides to ignore what he should be doing in favor of waiting to see if any of the others will bring up any problems themselves. The decision smooths like salve over his nerves.

"I need date ideas," he finally says. "Or relationship advice, or a combination of the two. It's kind of been a while."

"Big Green not so into third wheeling it? Clint is so lucky you came to me."

As Tony continues to talk, suggestions and advice interspersed with promises that he will take Dum-E apart and have some suburban hippie make lawn art out of him if he does not roll his steel butt out of pestering range _right now_ , Bruce starts to think that Tony is right about Clint's luck.

* * *

Bruce shows up outside of Clint's suite at 5:58 p.m. with a bouquet in shades of dark purple stuffed into a 2000ml Erlenmeyer flask, because all of the vase options of the florist Tony had recommended ("Jarvis, what's the number for that one that I used after what happened in Dubai? No, the other time.") made Bruce cringe.

His conviction that the flowers are still way too feminine and probably stupid or offensive or something grows with each second it takes Clint to answer his door, until he's ready to bolt as the knob turns.

Clint stands in his doorway in dark wash jeans, a maroon t-shirt with what Bruce is guessing is a band's logo imprinted on it, although he's never heard of them, and a soft smile that makes Bruce so, so grateful that he didn't run.

Clint's gaze traces across Bruce's expression, then down to the flowers. His smile grows as he cocks a brow.

"These were Tony's idea," Bruce jumps to explain, "and I'm pretty sure it was a bad one at that. Sorry about the flask; they didn't have any vases that didn't look like they were made for a forty-year-old woman, which probably should have been a clue that I shouldn't have—"

Clint traps the rest of his explanation in a kiss, pressing laughter against Bruce's lips.

"They're great; no one's ever given me flowers before, or a flask, which you're not getting back, by the way; it's mine now." He takes the bouquet and gestures Bruce inside, making space for the flowers in the collection of souvenirs and small pieces of framed art on the mantle over his fireplace.

Watching Clint make room for them, carefully rearranging the shelf to give them a place, makes Bruce want to buy him flowers every change he gets.

Clint turns back to him, grinning. "So, what are we doing tonight?"

"I was trying to come up with some fun ideas, but most of those involved the types of settings I don't do so well in," Bruce ducks his head. Tony'd had dozens of ideas for first-date places that fell into three categories: too showy, too crowded, or too insane. Jarvis had a few suggestions that were more realistic, but still dangerous, including an extreme sports place where one of the games was a version of dodge ball that used padded arrows instead of balls, which Bruce was pretty sure Clint would _love,_ right up until the second that an unexpected hit brought out the other guy. Bruce had sent a text to Natasha about it, asking her to take Clint sometime instead. "If it's okay with you, we can just go and if you don't end up liking it we can do something else instead."

"Bruce, I have been waiting _months_ ; you could be taking me to watch Coulson do paperwork for five hours and it would still be one of the best nights of my life."

"I'll have to remember that for our next date," Bruce says, before realizing that he's made a huge assumption. He starts to take back the words, but Clint responds before he can finish.

"I'll be looking forward to it." The laugh Clint pairs with the words is infectious, the fingers he threads through Bruce's own as he tows him out of the suite and into the elevator are strong and calloused and fit into place like they have always belonged there. Bruce tries, as they pass the dozens of floors that separate Clint's apartment from ground level, to memorize every aspect of the sensation; one more memory to buoy or drown him when his life circles back to reality.

* * *

Tony had tried to convince Bruce to take one of his cars, but Bruce had turned him down in favor of catching a cab to the small café he'd found where local bands play sets in the evenings. He knows nothing about the band that's scheduled to play tonight, other than their name, but he's hoping they'll be at least somewhat close to the sort of music Clint enjoys.

They arrive just as the band is setting up, and Clint squeezes Bruce's hand at the realization of what Bruce had planned for the evening. They place their orders as the group starts, and Bruce gets to spend the next forty-five minutes watching Clint watch the band. Clint bounces his knee in time with the rhythm of each song and barely manages to distract himself from the music long enough to finish his meal.

At the end, when the band is packing things up and the table has been cleared, Clint turns to Bruce with worry hidden down deep in the look of appreciation in his eyes and apologizes for not being better company.

Bruce kisses him there at the table in front of the whole café, earnest but hesitant until Clint takes the lead.

At the end of the night, Bruce walks Clint to his door, which Clint teases him about but doesn't protest—"Alright, James Stewart; whatever you say"—and leans in for a goodbye kiss. Clint dodges it, leaning back and catching Bruce's hand instead, trying to pull him inside.

"Clint—" Bruce questions and warns all in one syllable.

"You slept in my bed last night when I thought you were there to tell me to fuck off," Clint says, dropping Bruce's hand. "I just thought you could do it again now that it means something."

And, put that way, there's only one answer Bruce can possibly give.

"Just sleeping," he says. "Okay?"

Clint chortles. "Don't worry, I swear I'll leave your honor intact."

Bruce catches the hand that Clint pulled back, slotting their fingers together once again, and wonders silently what the price will be for an evening as perfect as this one.


	27. Chapter 27

They go on three more dates (Clint introduces Bruce to the New York Aquarium and, afterward, to self-serve frozen yogurt and sweet, cold-mouthed kisses; Bruce sets up a late night picnic and stargazing on the roof, complete with red wine and candles that he's sure are far too cheesy until he sees the way the light catches in Clint's eyes; and Clint rents a car—Tony is appalled for the second time that they didn't just borrow something from the garage, and Clint shoots back that they need something that won't be a target for break-ins—and drives them out to Bear Mountain State Park for a day of hiking in celebration of Clint's knee being mostly back to normal) before everything goes to hell.

It starts with Tony and Pepper flying out to Malibu to handle some issues with the west coast branch of Stark Industries. Or, rather, it starts with Pepper flying out to handle some issues, and Tony flying out because two of his bots and the majority of his suits are out there, and Pepper's trip is the excuse he needs to go collect his toys. Besides, he explains over a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses just before he and Pepper head up to the jet, New York is nice, but there's nothing like California sun.

Eight days later, Thor gets summoned back to Asgard to deal with some kind of uprising. Jane goes with him, because the revolution is syncing up with a convergence between worlds, and Jane is in astrophysicist heaven just trying to explain to Bruce the little she's learned from Thor before they leave.

SHIELD pulls Steve and Natasha over to DC to run a few missions out of their headquarters a little over two weeks after that, the same day Clint gets a briefing on his latest op. It's some kind of undercover work he's not allowed to discuss. “Somewhere hot and humid where it sounds like I'm going to be stuck for a month, minimum, but at least the coming home part will be great. You'll wait for me, right? Won't run off with some other ex-carny with great aim and and fantastic pecs? I mean, seriously, look at these things, and don't you dare compare them to our resident God's or juiced up super soldier's; I came by these things honestly, I'll have you know, and”—Bruce swallows the rest of his sentence and tries—with hands and lips—to describe how he's not going anywhere. Clint responds with a desperation that undermines his flippant words.

Clint leaves the next morning, the pockets of his bow case filled with squares of chocolate and bags of gummy worms, because Bruce doesn't know how to write a love letter, but he does know that the treats his mom would sometimes add to his lunch bag when he was young were some of the loudest “I love you”s he's ever gotten, and maybe he doesn't mean it quite the way Clint would maybe like—not yet, anyway—but Bruce isn't going to send him off without a reminder that he will be missed.

And then there was one.

The tower had felt big before, but without the others to fill it with their presence and personalities, it grows cavernous; a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Bruce makes it through the first four days on a carefully planned circuit between the main kitchen and the lab. Up the elevator for tea and meals, down to work through the long list of experiments Tony'd been passionately suggesting over the past weeks and email his daily check-in to Steve and Coulson. When the lethargy in his brain becomes too much, he naps on the couch in the corner of the lab, lights all on, and doesn't let himself think about nights curled up in the dark with another body pressed against his own.

In the late evening of day nine Bruce is standing in the kitchen, picking out tea and waiting for the kettle to boil, when his mind draws a neat little parallel between this kitchen and the last two he used under SHIELD's care.

He registers the crack of ceramic on wood, foggily acknowledges that the noise means he dropped the mug he'd been holding. The crash of it is muted by a soothing voice in his ears as vibrations tremble against his wrist. He can't focus on any of it, not with the way the room feels simultaneously too big—thousands of miles of open space, and he's in the middle of it with nowhere to hide—and too small—the walls won't stop shifting in the corners of his eyes, making it impossible to spot the cameras he can feel watching him, pinning him in place like an insect mounted in a shadowbox. His skin is too hot, too tight, and his muscles are straining to what feels like a breaking point, ignoring his desperate commands to relax.

He is losing himself here in the heart of the tower with no enemies to fight and no one to take him down. 

The soothing voice cuts off, replaced by crackling and white noise for an instant, before a new speaker picks up where the last left off. “Jarvis, I'm live now, right? He can—Bruce, you can hear me, right?” The voice is hoarse and barely above a whisper, but the sliver of Bruce's mind that hasn't gone green locks onto it with a jolt of homesickness. “I've got a deal with Jarvis where he calls and patches me through if things get bad for you. Probably a—probably the sort of things stalkers do, or would do, if they had the technology for it, but that didn't actually occur to me until right now. Fuck, sorry about that.”

The voice— _Clint_ , Bruce's mind finally patches together, _Clint Barton_ —clears its throat. “So you, uh, you're there, right? Can hear me and stuff? Because I don't have the tech to get a visual with me right now and, I'll be honest, it's sort of sounding like I'm speaking to an empty room.”

“Clint.” The concentration it takes to locate the muscle groups in charge of speech and wrench back control of them leaves Bruce feeling like he's gone a few rounds with Thor.

“Hey! Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?”

“Ridiculous. I'm sorry; I got worked up over nothing. You should get back to your mission; I'll make some changes so it doesn't happen again.” It was Bruce's own fault for letting his guard down in the first place. He should have anticipated being triggered, but at least he can make some changes going forward. The lab is the safest, Bruce is guessing, given how he didn't have access to one under SHIELD's care. Tony keeps the fridge and cupboard near the couch stocked with quick and easy food options. Bruce can camp out there, have Jarvis lock him in, maybe—his chest constricts at the concept, but clear boundaries helped him keep control with SHIELD; maybe they'll help here, too.

A small, horrible part of Bruce wishes he had never agreed to stop running.

“Hey, no, you did great. You should be congratulating yourself; you got control back even without any of us there. You deserve a medal or something, okay? And, trust me here, I would not have told Jarvis to have me on speed dial just in case if I wasn't up for it. I've been doing surveillance for the past week; getting to talk to you in the middle of it is an absolute pleasure.”

Bruce opens his mouth to correct Clint's unwarranted kindness, explain to him that people who are currently standing in a self-made sea of ceramic shards, gasping for breath like it's some kind of accomplishment to not totally lose it in the face of their own emotions, do not deserve medals. Instead, he swallows back the words. They're nothing Clint hasn't heard from him before—nothing he doesn't clearly already know Bruce is thinking. Bruce drags himself far enough out of the vortex of self-flagellation feeding self-obsession feeding self-flagellation to say something that actually matters. “I miss you. I'm sorry Jarvis had to call you, but I'm not sorry that it means I get to talk to you.”

The crack of Clint's startled laugh cuts through the room like lightening. “I'm on to you, Banner. I'll bet you say that to all the guys.”

“Yeah, my favorite pick-up line involves this whole lead up where I almost transform into a giant rage monster. For the amount of effort that goes into it, the success rate is shockingly low.”

“Well, there's always a first time.”

Bruce finds himself smiling in response to the smirk in Clint's voice. “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time before I found someone with poor enough judgment.”

“Aw man, again with the sweet talking,” Clint chuckles. “Seriously, though, you okay? We kind of all bailed on you, which sucks, and if you think you'd be better off with someone around—no offense, Jarvis—just say the word. Avengers business trumps SHIELD business, which doesn't necessarily mean that I'll be able to get back right away, but Natasha could probably postpone her work in DC and head back to New York until I'm done here, if you need it.”

“I'll be fine, Clint; sorry I worried you.”

“Hey, as long as you're doing well I'm not complaining. Feel free to worry me a bit more often while I'm away; I've almost hit the point of muttering to myself to pass the time out here and, trust me, no one wants that.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Bruce says, even as he cements in his brain the new restrictions he's putting on himself. He's aware of the disconnect between the two, knows Clint would object to more rules and more hyper-vigilant control, but Clint's not actually here right now, and it's Bruce's job to hold it together while the rest of the team is out actually being useful to society.

“Good, and I'll do everything I can to wrap this job up as quickly as possible. I'll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah, see you soon.”

“Jarvis--” the speakers go silent as Clint's attention shifts to the AI.

Bruce sags against the counter top, exhausted in the wake of fighting his way back from the brink of a transformation and desperately, pathetically lonely in the gaping silence Clint's call leaves behind. He drops his elbows to the granite, presses his closed eyes into his upturned palms until colors explode in the darkness behind his lids, and lets the sensations drown him for the span of a few minutes.

Then Bruce straightens, tiptoes his way out of the star-burst of broken mug--“Don't worry about the mess, Dr. Banner,” Jarvis says before Bruce can start hunting for a broom--“I'll have the bots handle it”--and heads to his room to collect a few changes of clothes. It ends up reminding him of after the fight with Loki and the Chitauri; stuffing the same clothes back into the same bag that Natasha had given him before he'd moved into the tower, except for the addition of the plush octopus Clint had insisted on buying Bruce after he'd spent forty minutes of their date to the aquarium in the cephalopod exhibit.

Back in the lab, he tosses the bag onto the couch, turns to head to his desk, and twists right back again to dig the octopus out. He grabs one of the spare stools and wheels it over to his desk, dropping the toy on top, well out of the way of any potential for splatter from his experiments. He stares at it as he gives Jarvis the command to lock the lab and, barring any sort of assembling-worthy crisis, install an override for any future attempts on Bruce's part to unlock the doors before at least one other member of the team returns.

Everything will be fine, he tells himself as Jarvis voices his acquiescence, he can do this.

***

Six days later, it's a Tuesday, and Bruce is waiting for his cup noodles to finish saturating. The octopus is now a goggle-clad lab assistant who listens to all of Bruce's ramblings, but there hasn't been another close call since the kitchen, so Bruce figures he can let his lesser quirks slide. He's explaining this aloud as he peels off the paper lid and pokes his chopsticks around the styrofoam cup, when Jarvis' voice resonates from the ceiling.

“Dr. Banner, Ms. Romanoff is asking to speak with you. Should I put her through?”

“Yes, please, Jarvis.” Bruce sets down his noodles and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Bruce?”

“Yeah,” Bruce breathes. “Hi. What's up? How is DC?”

Natasha snorts, “I take it you haven't been following the news recently.”

A shiver runs down Bruce's spine. “I told Jarvis to let me know if I was needed, but I've been staying away from as many potential triggers as I can. Are you and Steve okay?”

“We're both a little banged up, but hanging in there,” her voice is wry, but there's an edge to it that makes the hairs on the back of Bruce's neck stand up. “There's kind of a lot to explain if you've missed it, and I don't know how comprehensive your knowledge of WWII is, but the short version is the Nazi organization Hydra managed to infiltrate SHIELD, and we've been dealing with the fallout. There's more to tell, and a lot to do, but I'll be flying back to the tower in the morning to plan my next move, so I can give you the details then.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, trying to process. “Good. It's good that you're okay. If there's anything I can do to help...”

“I appreciate that, Bruce.” Natasha's voice is soft, gentle in a way that sets off every warning siren in Bruce's brain. “Listen, I've got some news that I need you to stay calm for. I thought telling you as soon as possible would be the best route, but if you think it would be better to wait until I'm there in person, that's fine, too.”

Bruce wraps his arms around his torso, as if he can hold himself together against the barrage of sound bites he can hear in her silence. It's no great challenge to filter the reasons she would call, the concerns that wouldn't keep until tomorrow. “Clint.”

“From what he told me before I left, it was a standard undercover op; the sort of thing he and I used to run constantly. But I haven't been able to establish contact with him since this whole mess started, and I've been through all the files on all the databases we've got and can't find a single record of his assignment anywhere. I got a hold of Phil, but he didn't know anything, either."

Bruce's throat is a desert. “Fury?”

There's a pause, before Natasha says, “We've got all his records, but Nick didn't make it.”

It's easy to form the words, “I'm sorry for your loss." Easy to let his body run on autopilot while is brain tries to catch up.

“It's been a rough couple of weeks.” Natasha lets emotion leak into her tone, saturating the words with grief and exhaustion. “But I didn't call to share sob stories. To the best I can figure on my end, Clint has been missing for eight days, and I don't even know which continent to start searching. I was wondering if he'd said anything to you that might help.”

Bruce closes his eyes, counts back twice to make sure he's right and lays his thoughts in order before he says, “I spoke with him six days ago, probably around 11:30pm Eastern time. He said he'd been doing a week of surveillance by that time, and before he left he had told me it was somewhere hot and humid. I don't...I think that was everything. I'm sorry.”

“That's more than I had before I called,” she assures him. “I'll see if I can shake anything else loose and see you in the morning, okay?”

“Sure, yes. Is there anything I can start on in the meantime to help? It's not like I'm going to be able to fall asleep tonight, anyway.”

Natasha huffs a laugh. “I know the feeling. All of SHIELD's files are now a google search away, so you're welcome to do some digging, if you want. I'll send you anything I find that might be helpful. The biggest thing is probably going to be staying calm until I get there.”

It's a question and a warning in one; Bruce has to appreciate her tact. “The Other Guy likes Clint, I think, and we can't be helpful unless he lets me hold it together.” Speaking slowly, Bruce prods the corners of his mind, testing the validity of his words. It's new, insane territory; he usually stays as far from the dark sea of green that surrounds his rational thoughts as humanly possible, but somewhere in the chaos and rage he can feel an undercurrent of agreement. “I think we'll be okay until you get back.”

“Good,” Natasha says. “Talk to you soon.”

The line cuts off. Bruce brings his hands to his face, hiding for a moment in the darkness behind his cupped palms, before straightening. “Jarvis, catch me up; I need the highlights of what I've been missing and all the information you can find that might have even a remote connection to Clint.”

“Of course, Doctor Banner.”

The counter beneath Bruce's cup of noodles glows as Jarvis activates the touch screen beneath it, and Bruce forces himself to eat as he scans the articles and video clips, emotions muted except for the long, low growl he can't seem to drown out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No guarantees that it will impact my writing speed, but re-reading this story has made it clear to me how desperately I could use a beta reader, if anyone is interested! You can either drop me a note here or email me at septembermccoy@gmail.com if you're up for the job. Thanks so much!


End file.
